The Brick Wall Job
by HonestBee
Summary: One hard-headed hitter, determined to go it alone. Four very stubborn thieves, determined to save him from himself. A handful of old allies who are Not Amused. A handful of old enemies crawling out of the woodwork. One priceless, possibly cursed, monkey statue. Eliot receives news that makes his blood run cold. Features the entire team.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: New year, new story! Not much action to start, and updates may be a little sporadic due to the need to maintain a "real life" but this story will never be abandoned. I just needed to post this chapter to get some momentum going.**

 **There will be a lot of team-as-family love and maybe a few traces of Parker/Hardison and even fewer traces of Nate/Sophie, all cannon, but romance is definitely _not_ the focus.**

 **Warnings:**

 **Later chapters will have some violence, language in context, yelling, angst, tears, etc...Most things will be at the level of any Leverage episode for now, but any specific chapter that I think warrants a stronger warning will be noted.**

* * *

The Brick Wall Job, chapter 1

Drinking oneself into oblivion was not guaranteed to keep the nightmares away, and it certainly never led to a pleasant morning. Case in point, _this_ morning, where Nate tried desperately to drift back to sleep despite the pounding of his carefully-stationary head and the sensation that something small and furry had died and was rotting away in his mouth.

Nate sometimes wondered, in his more drunken-philosophical moments, if Eliot had ever learned this lesson the hard way, and taken it well to heart, or if he was simply strong enough not to have tried it in the first place. Either way, Nate had never seen the man exhibit anything more than mild hangover symptoms, and that only if heavy drinking was required for a con. But as far as Nate was concerned, Eliot had every right and reason to tie one on whenever he wanted.

It was mornings like this, after a con that had almost turned tragic, after Nate would pointedly glue himself to a barstool to brood on the "almost" part while his team chose to celebrate the "didn't" part, that he truly envied whatever coping mechanisms the others had that let them avoid this run-over-by-a-bus morning after.

Oh, he hadn't _intended_ to spend the night drunkenly brooding, alone again. Sophie had pointedly left early ( _Home. To my_ own _apartment_ ) when Nate had pointedly ignored her pointed looks as he ordered his second round. He was vaguely aware of Eliot leaving not long after with some leggy blonde, and of Parker and Hardison dissolving into smiles and giggles at a booth in the corner. Nate told himself he was only going to have a nightcap while looking over some potential new clients but the truth was (and he was damn well _not_ too far gone to at least _acknowledge_ it!) that he was well on the way to drinking himself past the welling guilt and self-reproach this job had dredged up in him.

 _Nate, if I'm engaged..._

 _Do your worst._

The words had echoed in his head as he ordered a third round.

* * *

Nate didn't often second-guess himself. And he would rather not be doing so now, while the room tilted nauseatingly around him like some cursed carnival ride, as he kept his eyes squeezed shut against the morning sun. _Note to self: just leave the damn window blinds down permanently!_ So no, the drinking wasn't a solution, he'd long been aware of _that_. And it didn't make for a pleasant morning, not by a long shot. And it _hadn't_ kept any nightmares at bay.

It had muddled them, certainly. Given him nothing more than vague impressions of activity, half-muffled noises...No colors or solid forms, only shapes and shadows in motion around him, not frantic, but not calm either. Not the beeping and bustle of the blue-tinged pediatric ward, the keening and wailing and begging and useless people who couldn't save his boy. It left him with only a strong, unfocused, sense of dread.

Or maybe that sense of dread was more physical than psychological. Nate contemplated the wisdom of attempting to ignore the building nausea versus levering himself upright to stagger to his bathroom. Allowing himself a quiet groan, he settled on a happy medium instead. Small steps beginning great journeys or some crap like that he told himself. He pried his eyes open first, blinking against the light and trying to force the blur around him into recognizable shapes.

One of those shapes resolved itself into a certain blond-haired thief, perched vulture-like upon the footboard of his bed. Nate scrambled up and backward, managing to whack his already-throbbing head quite soundly on the wall behind him.

"Geeze Parker! What the hell are you doing?!" _And how long have you been here?!_ Because Nate was pretty damn sure he had been actually awake and arguing with his hangover for the better part of an hour.

"Waking you up. Sophie said I 'drew the short straw' whatever that means." Parker made air quotes while managing to remain precariously perched on the footboard. She stared at him with an intensity usually reserved for the most "fiddly" of locks, but continued matter of factly, "Eliot didn't make us breakfast."

Nate squinted at her, blinking and buying time to calm his runaway heart. At least the sudden shock seemed to have temporarily quelled his nausea, and partly cleared his head. "Eliot doesn't always make us breakfast, Parker. And I'm not cooking anything for you, either. There's cereal in the cabinet."

Parker rolled her eyes and unleashed a sigh that sounded for all the world like she thought she was speaking with a particularly dim-witted child. She rose gracefully and in one fluid motion stepped forward from the footboard to instead take a spot on Nate's bed, where his feet had previously resided. She crouched down again and leaned forward on the balls of her feet.

"Eliot likes to cook for us when he feels guilty. And he felt guilty yesterday, after the carnival. 'Cause Molly got abducted and he almost had to kill people." All this was delivered matter-of-factly, but that did nothing to quiet the sudden voices in Nate's head, seemingly as clear and real as if he were still wearing an earbud.

 _Nate, if I'm engaged..._

 _Do your worst._

Parker spoke again before his thoughts could swirl any deeper, and she began counting off bullet points on her fingers.

 _"And_ Eliot went to the farmer's market last weekend. He bought a lot of fresh healthy stuff. He only does that if he's going to use it right away, because he doesn't like to waste it, and it's in _your_ fridge. Which means no one will _actually_ eat it unless Eliot _makes_ us eat it. So, Eliot was going to come here and make us breakfast."

Nate rubbed at the fresh bruise on the back of his head, under the tangle of hair, trying mightily to follow Parker's leaping logic. "He was pretty beat up yesterday, you sure he was up to cooking?"

"He was up to going on a 'date' last night, with some 'nurse'." Parker made elaborate finger quotes again, also taking the opportunity to scoot further up Nate's bed. Nate pulled his feet closer to himself in defense. She sounded...not _disgusted,_ but more _put out._ Like Eliot's hiring a "nurse" was some personal insult against Parker's ability to stitch and bandage him up. Nate hadn't missed how she had immediately shooed Eliot, actually _shooed him,_ complete with little flaps of her hands, into the apartment's downstairs bathroom as soon as the team had returned from the carnival.

In his more soft-hearted sober moments, Nate allowed himself a bemused appreciation that Eliot was willing to teach Parker things like that. Out of the rest of the team, she really was best-suited to be Eliot's unofficial apprentice. She compartmentalized so well, could ruthlessly separate fear and uncertainty from what simply _needed_ to be done. And she seemed to soak up every new thing thrown at her. Surely Eliot trusted Parker's skills, so the fact his date was a "nurse" must have just been coincidence, and Parker had simply missed the cues.

"Well, there you go. He's probably still with her." Nate decided his nausea would hold off after all, and he tried to slip back under the covers and into unconsciousness, but Parker had worked herself nearly two-thirds of the way up his bed now and, Nate was not too proud to admit, her intensity was getting a little creepy.

"Eliot doesn't like to fall asleep with people around. He barely sleeps with any of _us_ around. He would have had his 'fun'," the finger quotes were now directly in Nate's face, "then gone home after his 'date,' and then he would have come _here_ this morning like usual." Parker finished by stabbing the center of Nate's chest with a forefinger.

The finger remained hovering over his breastbone and she intermittently stabbed him with it as she continued her litany. "Eliot left _blueberries, eggs, flour, cream cheese, buttermilk,_ and _his_ waffle iron _here_. So, he was _intending_ to make us Belgian waffles. _And_ since we were _all_ going to be here for a post-job briefing..."

"Yeah, but not 'til this aftern..." Nate tried to intercept the stabbing finger, but he was finding coordination difficult.

 _"AND_ since Eliot felt _guilty,_ today would have been _perfect_ for him to _make_ them. But he's not _HERE."_ She stabbed the finger at Nate's breastbone once more, digging it in this time.

Nate couldn't really fault her logic, odd though it tended to be. Parker had an uncanny understanding of Eliot sometimes, and if she was _certain_ Eliot should have been here this morning...well, that was good enough to make Nate's concern flash at least a code yellow. He reluctantly gave up any further thought of sleeping in, and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. "What time is it? Did you try calling him?"

"Almost eight, and Hardison says the only two numbers he has for Eliot go straight to voicemail. They aren't 'pinging' anywhere either, which he says means the phones are disabled. And the last known location he has for them is _here."_ This time, Nate managed to deflect the incoming finger.

"Okay, Parker. Let me out of bed." Parker rose from her crouch and jumped daintily off Nate's bed, then stood expectantly, still watching him.

"...Parker? Go downstairs. While I get dressed."

"Oh. Okay." And she turned and disappeared from Nate's room.

Rising from his bed and dressing himself turned out to be much easier than Nate had feared when he first woke this morning. Apparently, having the crap scared out of him, and being given a new case for his mind to work on, made for a potent hangover remedy.

The only problem being: _this_ case was much too close to home. And the nausea again turned vaguely in his gut as Nate wondered: did yesterday have anything to do with Eliot's absence today?

 _Nate, if I'm engaged..._

 _Do your worst._

* * *

When Nate arrived downstairs, he found Hardison hard at work typing, with Sophie hanging directly over his shoulder. She wordlessly tossed him an earbud, and he caught and slipped it in without breaking stride toward the kitchen.

"Parker? Where are you?" Nate found the oversized "World's Greatest Mastermind" novelty mug, something that had inexplicably turned up under the tree last Christmas, and which he usually shoved to the back of his cabinet, was waiting beside the coffee maker. No matter, he needed the oversize dose of caffeine this morning.

 _"On the roof keeping watch,"_ Parker chirped brightly through the coms.

"Why?" The oversize mouth of the oversize mug ensured Nate's coffee pouring went off without a hitch.  
 _  
"Listen to Hardison."_

Coffee in hand, Nate leaned against the breakfast bar, waiting for Hardison to finish with whatever he was typing.

"While Parker was upstairs dragging your lazy ass outta bed, I found some really disturbing news out of Europe..." He pointedly ignored Nate's stare and started opening windows to display on the big screens.

"Okay, y'all know I have these crawlers an' things I send out to troll the Internet, the Dark Web, all that? You know, kinda keep an eye out for possible clients or targets, keep an eye on some of our past clients and victims..." Hardison glanced around, blinking as if he'd just woken up. "Cut to the chase, got it. Th' crawlers _jus'_ started pickin' _this_ stuff up...Y'know how San Lorenzo barely had a toe in the 20th century?"

"Oh come on, Hardison. It wasn't _that_ bad. They had the Internet..."

"Yeah, like nineties Internet. Sophie, the point is, it was still the Dark Ages in San Lorenzo, kinda like Cuba...took a while for _any_ o' this news to hit the _modern_ Internet here..."

Hardison poked at a button on his keyboard and a grainy, jumpy, video started playing. It could have been any of thousands of Mediterranean-style buildings, its side blown out and half-reduced to rubble and flame. With the lack of any clear landmarks on the film, no one could say with certainty where it was. But it was as if a grave-chilled wind blew past him as Nate shuddered with a sudden dread. Screw code yellow, his concern ratcheted straight to code fire engine red.

"Around ten or eleven last night, our time and early-ass mornin' for them, the Parliament Building was bombed. There's no word on casualties, motive, nothin', 'cause everything is mass confusion right now. Their Presidential Palace is near by, and was damaged in the blast."

"My God," Sophie's voice was barely a whisper.

"There's no word on President Vittori, only rumors that the country is currently under martial law. Nothin' beyond local news is carryin' the story yet 'cause pretty much NO ONE in the WORLD knows San Lorenzo even _exists,_ an' everyone else is focused on the Middle East an' Al Qaeda...who gives a rip 'bout a tiny unassuming country on the Mediterranean Sea?" Hardison paused for breath and a hearty swig of orange soda. "An' anyway, I'm sure WE all know who's behind this."

Sophie spoke before Nate could shake off his chill. "Oh that stupid, stupid man! He's gone off by himself again, just like when we first went after Moreau, and he was out 'keeping tabs...'" _What's the deal with the finger quotes today?_ Nate had to smother the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. "...on the _wanker_ without telling us he used to work for him! That bloody self-sacrificing idiot is going to get himself killed!"

"But if he thought _we_ were in danger, he wouldn't leave us without protection..." Hardison looked like he wanted to believe Sophie's assessment was wrong, that Eliot was just late because he had slept in with some dame...but Nate could see it in his eyes. They all knew Sophie had hit the target dead-on.

And now, Nate was well-beyond fire engine red. Before the team, hell, before _he_ could become paralyzed with fear and indecision, Nate prodded them back to work.

"Hardison, do we have a contact number for Eliot's friend in San Lorenzo? The General?"

"Nothing personal, the number Eliot used the first time was compromised. And the San Lorenzo government switchboard is understandably _not there_ right now. Do YOU have a contact for that Italian chic? 'Cause the number we used before is disconnected." Hardison tried to take a swig from his empty orange soda bottle. Sophie plucked it from his hand.

Nate had retrieved his phone and was already dialing. The number clicked out of service. He shook his head. "Guess she held up her end of the deal and figured that was that. We're on our own. Just keep doing what you're...uh, doing, and let me think..."

"Look, the tech in this country is still back-assward, okay? I'm _working_ on it!"

Ever the calming voice of reason, bless her heart, Sophie called for a time out. "Look everyone, we need to stay calm and work through this objectively, right? We can't just..."

But she was interrupted by Parker, who had remained silent and forgotten through the entire discussion.

 _"Guys? We're being watched."_

~TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I should have mentioned this in chapter 1: I laid out some of my version of Eliot's past in The Building Blocks Job, and most of my other stories show bits and pieces of his relationship, as I see it, to the rest of the team. There is no _need_ to be familiar with those stories in order to follow this one, but they are all related.**

 **Just a reminder: this takes place prior to The Girls/Boys Night Out Jobs.**

* * *

Chapter 2

Eliot shifted his weight gingerly, his battered frame protesting the chill air and prolonged immobility. That Russian punk _(why was it always Russians?!)_ had sure done a number on him. But he was alive, upright, and mostly intact and that beat the alternative by a mile. He may be sore, and his team may think he was nuts, but he'd have to be dead to agree to any sort of a hospital stay.

And honestly, he _had_ intended to rest and relax last night, not end up lurking in the pre-dawn chill of the park across the street from Nate's building. Of course, Eliot's definition of "rest and relax" _had_ included that long-anticipated date with the nurse he'd met over the green apples at the farmers' market. _But,_ despite everything his team believed about him, not _every_ date resulted in... _other_ activities. Tonight, he would have been perfectly content with dinner and some sympathy cuddling on the couch while watching a movie. Beating up three hulking guys who tried to mug a little old lady seemed like the right kind of cover story.

Dinner had been quite good (perhaps a tad too much salt in the shrimp risotto but still...), and they had lingered long over drinks and dessert. Good food, good company, and an evening away from his highly annoying, over protective, and over _indulging_ teammates did more for his recuperation, physically and mentally, than a hospital stay and heavy painkillers.

Until that good mood crashed down with the simple vibration of a cell phone.

* * *

The offending device was not his personal phone, the one which everyone knew the number to and which had been left at home for obvious reasons. And it was not the super-special, Hardison-issued, untraceable, unhackable work phone he kept with him always. It was his _other_ phone. The one the team did NOT know about and never would, and the one very, very few people had ever been given the number for.

Eliot excused himself politely, only his many years of experience keeping the sudden dread he felt off his face and out of his actions. He stepped out onto the smokers' patio in back of the restaurant, thankfully empty at this late hour. Leaning against the railing, as if to idly watch the boat traffic on the Charles River below, Eliot flipped open his phone and pressed it to his ear. "Spencer."

"It's begun."

The shrimp risotto turned to lead in Eliot's stomach, and he gripped the patio railing to steady himself, as if the light breeze might be enough to knock him flat. Never in his life had Eliot ever been so thrown by so few words. _No. We're not READY!_

"What did he do?" Eliot's voice was hoarse but rock-steady, belying his internal battle as the lead block of his dinner turned slowly to acid. Flores was unflappable when he and Eliot had fought side by side, unwavering when Eliot had delivered his death warrant, unafraid when Moreau had taken him, and now unemotional as he related only the most pertinent facts.

"A bomb at the Parliament building, less than an hour ago. The Tombs were blown wide open. It is too early for full damage reports and identifying any casualties. But there is no sign of _him_. We are certain he has escaped."

It took all of Eliot's considerable self-control to avoid crushing the small flip phone in his hand. Instead, he braced his free elbow on the railing and pressed his forehead hard into his open palm, wondering (hoping?) that he had perhaps taken the nasty painkillers after all, and this was just a drug-induced nightmare.

"Vittori?"

"He is secure. My most trusted men have seen to that." _Thank God for small favors_. Eliot let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and gulped a great lungful of the freshening breeze. It helped temper his soured stomach and brushed loose locks of hair back from his too-warm face. Eliot took another deep breath, feeling his head begin to clear a bit. This was too soon, and they weren't ready. But they also weren't beaten _yet_. One more deep breath, and Eliot felt in control of himself again.

Flores would be needed by his country and his president in this time of confusion and fear. Eliot had work to do now, very important work. He needed to cut this call short. "Keep me informed." One more deep, steadying breath, then: "My people here may attempt to contact you..."

"They will not be able to for some time. But yes, when they do, I will abide by your wishes. Be careful, my friend." And Flores ended the call.

* * *

Eliot closed his phone, and returned it to his pocket. He couldn't afford to waste a single moment now, but he needed to simply breathe just a little longer. He gripped the railing with both hands and bowed his head, considering. His team was likely scattered at this late hour, back to their own homes for the night. It would take too long to gather them all to himself, and they were likely safe enough for the time being. None of those addresses had any ties to the work they did. And he could not afford to alert his team to what was happening right now.

It was Nate's building, the unofficially-official Leverage HQ, worst-kept secret headquarters in the world, that would be most vulnerable when Moreau made his move. But, it was also the ideal staging spot for what Eliot planned to do now. They had just completed a job, there was a planned debriefing the following day. Let Hardison, Parker, and Sophie deliver themselves into safety. Eliot knew where they all lived now, so he would swing by each place just to check, before he took care of other matters. If all looked well, they could sleep peacefully for one more night.

It was a skeleton of a plan, held together with duct tape and glue, but it gave him some hope. First order of business: he had a call to make. Second order of business: let nurse Gail down softly. No cause for alarm, no reason to draw attention to his business.

* * *

 _We knew it was only a matter of time._

Eliot had wanted desperately, naively maybe, to believe that Nate's solution had fixed everything. He had wanted to believe he could move past this blight in his past with no further bloodshed. He knew it couldn't last. And he knew, when this day came, that the others could not become involved again. There would be no more room for tricks and misdirection. This could only end with bloodshed.

And so Eliot had kept his feelers out, listening for any move from Moreau's considerable empire, fallen though it appeared. It would have been foolish to assume Moreau had left all his men in the warehouse. Or even the _best_ of those men. And so, Eliot had plotted at length with Flores. They had the framework of several plans, but it was slow work and this was too soon. There had been no warning whatsoever. Moreau would surely waste no time. Flores' call gave Eliot the slightest edge, and though it might prove insignificant by the time this was all said and done, Eliot would take whatever he could get.

And now, preparations made, Eliot waited in the pre-dawn chill. He had circled Nate's building several times, staying well clear of Hardison's security system. He had marked each team members' arrival: Hardison, lugging his ever-present electronics, was surprisingly the first to arrive. Or maybe not so surprising, as the kid actually had a solid work ethic, and had committed to making certain the Russians never had reason to bother the Connells again.

Sophie had arrived not long after, a humble queen hunched deep into her over-priced fur coat. It was after jobs like the one they had just completed, that the team seemed to want to linger together, more often than not invading Nate's apartment before the sun even rose again.

Parker's arrival had been the most difficult to mark: she flitted from shadow to shadow, while managing to appear as though she were no more than a shadow herself. Eliot approved of her _zanshin,_ her wariness, her sneakiness. She had the best chance of survival on her own. Nate was somewhat competent, he could at least throw a punch and swing that police baton of his. The other two were mostly hopeless. Sweetly-woven words and the fastest computer hacking in the world could seemingly work miracles, and Eliot had done what he could to teach them to throw a punch, protect their vital organs when receiving a punch, and pay attention to their surroundings...but none of it would stand against Moreau's swift and sure vengeance when it came.

Protecting them was his job, doubly so now when he was the only one who could _possibly_ stop Moreau. Now, Moreau knew them all. Now, they were on his radar. Now, there would be no use for tricks.

Eliot fingered the small recorder in his pocket. He wanted his message to the team to be the truth, but in his heart of hearts, he didn't even believe it himself. And a longing struck him unexpectedly, a wish that he could have cooked one more meal for them before leaving. He squashed that wish, quickly and thoroughly as he could.

 _Damnit,_ he swore at himself. That was too sentimental, too distracting. Fantasizing for even a second that he could go back to his friends and this strange new life after all was said and done was dangerous. He couldn't afford sentimentality. He couldn't afford to wonder if they would even welcome him back. He couldn't afford to think about the future. He had to focus on the present. That was all he had time to do. There was such a tiny window in which to work.

How many hundreds of innocents had died by his hand? Now, he would move heaven and earth to keep _four_ innocents safe. He wasn't worthy of these people, but he would try his best to return to them. He just wasn't sure his best would be good enough this time. _I'm sorry, guys. I'm sorry for lyin' to you, Parker._

* * *

Nate and Sophie, Hardison and Parker. They were all safely together now, hopefully still unaware. Eliot had carefully watched the building through the night, haunting it and the surrounding streets until the sky began to lighten and he returned to the spot in the park from which he could watch the entrance to McRory's Pub. He carefully observed the staff arrive as well, a scant few this early in the morning, but the only other people who had any business being in Nate's building. There was no one unfamiliar, no one acting suspiciously. None of the early-morning pedestrian or street traffic behaved in any manner that tingled Eliot's "spidey-senses." There was nothing _distinctive_.

Until he became aware of a figure approaching him across the park, shadowed in the half-light under the trees. The figure, a man judging by the gait, wasn't attempting to hide or act unthreatening. He stopped, unsurprised and completely at ease, when Eliot stepped out from among the stand of venerable old oak trees.

"Shelley."

"Eliot."

They embraced like brothers. Eliot pulled back first, with a wince he didn't bother trying to hide. With all the missions they had been on together, both in the service and after, they knew each other too well to try to hide things like that.

"Damn, Eliot. You look like you ran up against a squad of Russian bodybuilders. You okay? You need some help gettin' revenge on them?" He grinned, but Eliot could see Shelley was ready for whatever job Eliot had called him in for. It was just in the kid's nature to joke around for stress relief. He was solid.

"Russians, yeah, but they're already taken care of. I got somethin' else for ya. I'm callin' in a favor. I want you to protect some people for me." And that was what made this so hard. There were so few people he could trust with _this_. Especially when he longed to do it himself. Shelley raised his eyebrows expectantly, a good soldier if not _technically_ a soldier any more, waiting for his orders.

* * *

"What do you know about Moreau?"

Holy shit. Shelley had never turned down an order when he was in the service, and he rarely turned down a paying job after he'd gone freelance, but this was the kind of thing he would never dare touch with a ten-foot pole. Scratch that. Ten- _mile_ pole. Thankfully, some other crazy bastards already had. Shelley admired whoever had pulled it off, but he sure as hell didn't envy them.

"I know that right now he's rotting away in a San Lorenzo prison cell...that some team of scary-good mercenaries or whatever managed to put him away..."

Eliot's face softened just a bit at that, he probably didn't even realize he'd given it away. But that sure as hell looked like a bit of pride in Eliot's countenance.

"Waaait...that was _you?_ That's the crew you've been running with these last few years? Rumor is they aren't to be messed with." Eliot had had that bad-ass reputation nearly as long as Shelley had known him. It had been well-known, in certain circles, that Eliot Spencer had been Moreau's top enforcer, a nightmare in the flesh. Shelley had never understood why Eliot would take such a distasteful job. Simply killing hadn't really been an issue for either one of them, provided the reason fit their principles, and you followed the orders you were given. But he had lost touch with Eliot not long after Eliot's discharge, and it wasn't until a few years ago that Eliot had tried to reconnect with _him_. Whatever had happened in the interim wasn't Shelley's business. But it appeared now that Eliot had found himself a crew as bad-ass as he was. Though surely even Eliot wouldn't have the balls to make a move against Moreau. Would he?

"Moreau's loose, I just got word...and my crew will be in danger now." That statement jerked Shelley's attention back to the matter at hand and he very nearly walked away, right then. Just turn on his heel, walk away, and let Eliot curse the day he was born. Because as much as they had been brothers in arms, it was _Eliot_ who had drifted away, and now he wanted _Shelley_ to go after this crazy-evil bastard. Shelley was no fool, and he picked his jobs carefully. He intended to retire rich, happy, and with all his limbs intact. He did _NOT_ want to be involved in _this_.

But the truth was, they were brothers in arms _always,_ no matter what had happened in the intervening years. And so Shelley _didn't_ walk away. "You said you want _me_ to protect them, so _you're_ going after Moreau by yourself? _You_ need backup."

"No. I know Moreau's methods, and I'll move faster alone. And you'll be the best help lookin' after them _for_ me. Give them my message." Shelley took the recorder from Eliot's outstretched hand, but he didn't break eye contact.

"Who _are_ these people, Eliot?"

"People who shouldn't be involved in this kinda thing...but they already are, an' they're targets now, an' they're not equipped for this...they're thieves. Hackers. Grifters. They ain't like _us_. They ain't fighters. They're good, but they're not made for _this_. I _need_ you to protect them for me."

Shelley waited, knowing Eliot would take his silence as an affirmative, and an invitation to continue. Eliot looked a bit relieved, but he also looked like ground beef. He wanted to hunt Moreau in the condition he was in now? The man was simply nuts. But Shelley had never known him to act rashly. Eliot knew his limits, even if he stepped over them more often than not. And Eliot didn't bother to hide his limp now, but he downplayed it as they worked their way through the park so Eliot could point out approaches to his crew's building.

"They're gonna figure it out, no way to prevent that. I just hope it's not until I put some distance between us. Look, they'll be skittish, they don't know you...you gotta approach them carefully, but...They don't trust easily...They're gonna see you coming. Hardison has this place wired like nothin' you've ever seen. An' that reminds me: don't let Hardison anywhere near your phone! Leave it in your car or somethin' when you approach them...Be bold, forward, but non-threatening..." _There_ was Eliot the leader laying it out, giving orders. Readying the troops. Preparing for battle.

And being a damned mama bear if he could only hear himself! Shelley absorbed all the relevant intel, but long years of experience let him do so flawlessly with only half his attention. The other half he directed toward this interesting new facet of Eliot. Although...it really wasn't that new. No, Eliot had always been protective of his men when they served together, the bond of brotherhood that made them so damned good at what they did. But Eliot had been tough as well, never sentimental. This was different. He was still gruff but now...now Shelley would swear that he could detect a fondness in Eliot's voice.

"Who _are_ these people?"Shelley put a hand on his shoulder, and Eliot stopped dead. Shelley was mindful of the bruising but he still turned Eliot forcefully to face him. "Who are they _to you?"_

"Just...stick with them. Try to get them to a safe house if you can...they won't want to give this up, they're too invested in it. Just...make sure they don't ditch you. That's the most important thing."

Why was Eliot deflecting? Shelley pressed on, now unaccountably irritated with the entire business. This was exactly the kind of job Shelley hated. The kind the old Eliot had always hated. The kind that got people killed. Too little information, too little planning, and much too personal.

"They aren't _just_ a crew to you."

Eliot didn't answer, but he shifted uncomfortably. And it wasn't just physical discomfort. Shelley knew him much too well. "How's this for an idea, Eliot? _You_ introduce me to them, and give them your message yourself... _Then,_ they might actually _trust_ me."

"I can't..." Eliot's voice caught and he paused to clear his throat. He might not be the greatest conversationalist, but Shelley had rarely seen Eliot at a complete loss for words. "They'll...try something to trap me there...they're...unreasonable, sometimes. Act without thinkin'...it'll get em killed. I...I can't risk it."

"What happened to you, Eliot? After you were discharged, I barely heard from you...we were buddies. We were brothers. _What. Happened. To. You?"_

And now he could see the famous Eliot temper, and it took all his experience and training not to flinch away from it. "If you don't want the job, just say so!"

"Hey. I will DO this job for you. Not as a favor, but because we're brothers. I'll take care of them as if they were my own. But when this is all said and done, I'd like an explanation." Eliot's relief at that statement wouldn't have been obvious to anyone who didn't know him as well as Shelley once had.

"They've... _we've_...been doing good things...helpin' people who have nowhere else to go. I forgot how good that felt. They were touched by Moreau's evil once already. I can't let it happen again." And Shelley knew that was the only elaboration that would be forthcoming from Eliot. It would have to be good enough for now.

Eliot turned his attention back to the mission. "One of 'em, Parker, is capable of sneaking up on _me_. Keep that in mind, and don't let her get anywhere near your pockets!"

* * *

And then, as the first rays of real sunlight began to warm the air around them, Eliot left. Shelley watched him go, knowing the direction he took now was not his intended direction. He would not let even an old service buddy in on his plans. He never looked back and though he limped, he never missed a step.

Eliot had pointed out the building surveillance, and Shelley avoided it with ease as he made his own circuit of the block: keeping his own watch, learning for himself the normal patterns of this part of the city. Eliot had wanted Shelley to whisk the team away to a safe house but if that was not possible, Shelley needed to know for himself what was normal traffic around the building, and what was not.

And he was also wasting time because, according to Eliot, this crew was damn lazy and approaching them too early in the morning might interrupt their beauty sleep. Okay, that was mostly Shelley's perception but still...let them have time to settle over breakfast and coffee, and they might be more willing to listen.

Shelley figured 8:00 was late enough and he decided to follow Eliot's advice about leaving his phone behind. He had just turned in the direction his nondescript sedan was parked when a shuffle in the leaves above him caught his attention. There was a slight breeze through the park, but this susurration just didn't quite match the rest. Probably only a squirrel, but before he had time to check, his world exploded in white and pain.

TBC~


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Special props to Gilbert H. Karr for guessing what really happened to Shelley.**

 **And also, I don't hate Shelley. Really I don't. He just needs to learn some things.**

* * *

Chapter 3

In the beginning, Parker hadn't trusted Eliot. She hadn't trusted _any_ of them, and she hadn't _wanted_ to. Stealing the airplane designs had simply been a contract job with a really good payout, good enough to make working with other people worth it, and that was all that mattered. No sense wasting time remembering names and other useless information. The only trust she had given the crew then was that they would feel and act the same way.

But that job, even with other people involved, had been _fun_. And she saw an opportunity to learn new things, no, to _steal_ knowledge from these people. And they weren't actually a threat to her, either. Hardison was weird, but he was _definitely_ terrified of her, which was good. It had made him a complete non-threat. Sophie and Nate would have been easy enough to escape from at any given time, so no worries there, either.

But Eliot was careful and watchful, and he seemed to know what people were doing even before _they_ did. She had been wary of him from the start. He was the only one of the four of them who could possibly have been a real physical threat to her. If he had ever cornered her, she might not have been able to get away or fight him off. But, he had never made a move against her, _ever_. And he happily showed her new ways to protect _herself_ when she asked. He was fierce like a wolf, and gentle like a pet dog, and loyal like them both all at the same time. It was weird, but it worked. And the only time he _ever_ showed his teeth was to protect them.

Some of the foster homes she had been in had dogs, and there were a lot of dogs on the streets as well. She had met good dogs and bad dogs, and she was astute enough to know that bad dogs weren't born, they were made. And they could be _un_ made. Eliot _thought_ he was a bad dog, but Parker knew that was wrong: the team had _un_ made him. Eliot was _safe,_ and _trustworthy,_ and _loyal._ And now he was missing, and it was up to his family to find him.

 _"Who's watching us, Parker? I don't have anybody on camera."_ Hardison sounded jittery, like when he drank four bottles of soda in a row and hadn't eaten any food to go with it. When he got that way, Eliot usually demanded he stop and eat "protein," but Eliot wasn't here to tell him that now.

"Eat some protein, Hardison. You don't see him because he looks like Eliot looks." Parker shifted her vantage point, and started planning her descent from the roof. Jumping would not be feasible this time, the wall was too exposed. Pity.

 _"Wha...? Slow down, girl..._ is _it Eliot?"_

Parker rolled her eyes. Hardison may be smart, but sometimes he lacked imagination. "No, he _looks_ like Eliot _looks_. You know when Eliot _looks_ at something and says it's _'distinctive'?_ Or when he's watching people but not _looking_ like he's watching them? That's how this guy looks...that's why he's avoiding your cameras."

Parker was on the ground now, via the boring old fire escape in the alley, but still hidden from the unknown observer's view. She put a set of headphones in her ears and pulled up the hood of her jacket, then dug out the tiny spy camera Hardison had "acquired" for her. Now, she looked just like any other early-morning jogger.

"He's like Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin. Maybe his name _is_ Eliot and he spells it differently...like 'Eric' and 'Erik!' Maybe this is 'Eliott' with two 't's'. I'm going to get closer and send you a picture."

Ignoring Hardison's pleas that she be careful, _Phht! Wasn't she always?,_ Parker stepped boldly out of the shadows on the side of the building opposite where Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin was currently lurking. She had watched from the roof for a while as he had made several circuits of the surrounding area, seemingly without pattern, but he was using the same techniques Eliot did to avoid attention and appear as though he belonged.

Parker herself easily blended into the light foot traffic now, and began to work her way around the building. As long as she behaved as though she was part of the normal pattern, she would _be_ part of the normal pattern. Eliot had put words to what she had been doing instinctively for most of her life. If you were part of the normal pattern, you wouldn't be noticed. Parker smiled to herself. This was going to be as fun as stalking Eliot. And stalking Eliot was _a lot_ of fun, though she always made sure to announce herself to him before she got too close, like with a sleeping dog.

Eliot seemed proud of her abilities, but she knew he would blame himself if he ever hurt her because she surprised him. She _knew_ Eliot would never hurt her, but to keep him happy, she made sure never to surprise him. This guy though, she would be more than happy to surprise. It just may take a little while.

* * *

 _"Parker? Are you_ certain _there is just one person?"_ There was Nate, and she could _hear_ him thinking, like some kind of psychic tingling over the earbuds. Nate was creepy when he got intent like that.

"Yep, I circled the building and jogged around the park...there's only one person acting like Eliot. He has a car parked around the corner too, nothing interesting inside it." It had taken only a moment to get in and poke around the interior, but it was as unrevealing as she had expected.

 _"Wait girl, how did you even get off the roof without being seen? I didn't even catch ya on my cameras...Ya know, I don' really wanna know."_ And then Hardison trailed off muttering about holes in his security and creepy ninja chicks. Parker tuned him out.

"He also doesn't have any weapons, all I found in his pockets was a small recording device, and a cell phone." Hardison squawked and from his babble, he seemed to think Parker had put herself in unnecessary danger by getting close enough to Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin to pick his pockets. It had been easy. He had been so intent on blending in, that he had completely missed _her._

 _"Okay Parker, what's your plan?"_

Parker paused as if to turn off her iPod, pulling the earphones out and tucking them in her pocket. She used the movement to glance back at Eliot's evil-but-not-identical twin, who remained completely unaware of her, and smiled to herself while fingering the taser in her pocket and assessing the trees overhead. She always did enjoy a challenge.

"I need someone to bring Lucille around behind the park..."

* * *

 _Sonofabitch that hurt!_

Shelley had not been tasered in quite a while, a year probably...yeah, that job in Rio, that was the last time. It was easy to forget just how excruciating it could be. But he was familiar enough with the sensation to keep his wits about him once the blinding white pain finally gave way to the feel of darkness and motion. _Vehicle with large cargo space, and at least three people: two holding him by the arms, those arms having been tied behind him while he was incapacitated, and a third person driving. Oh, and a black pillowcase over his head. That_ never _got old._

They didn't travel far at all before the vehicle bumped to a stop and he was manhandled out of it, through some sort of door, and immediately up a set of stairs.

And by now, Shelley had decided to play along. Maybe it had something to do with the whispering, but-all-too clear, voices around him: one young man who apparently didn't have the stomach for this kind of work, fretting that they'd all be arrested for kidnapping. Or shot. Neither of which his Nana would approve of. Then there was the slightly-off young woman who seemed to want to taser him again. Please no. He knew who these people must be by now, and compliance would get him exactly what he wanted anyway: into the inner sanctum. It may not have gone according to plan, but he'd take what he could get, because if Eliot ever found out the crew had managed to get the drop on him, Shelley would never live it down.

And if it had happened under any other circumstances, if these people hadn't been the "innocents" Eliot claimed they were, Shelley would never have _lived_ to live it down.

Fatal assumption number one: not properly heeding Eliot's paranoia. Fatal assumption number two: believing the team was all safe in the building, still unaware. Fatal assumption number three: believing these people were unfamiliar with Eliot's methods. Fatal assumption number four: falling for the "jogger in the park" bit.

 _That_ was sloppy of him. If anything like that had happened on an assignment, people could have died. People _had_ died. And people would die now, if even half of what Shelley had heard about Moreau was true. Eliot was certainly worried. He didn't really show it of course, and he didn't let it interfere with what he thought had to be done, but Eliot was more worried than Shelley had ever seen him.

They had been good, all of them, back in the day. They were the best of the best. But Eliot had been uncannily good, unflappable, tough but good-natured. He had commanded respect, he thrived on the work. And even afterward, Eliot had been known as unshakable. _Had_ to be, to be so trusted by Moreau. And if Eliot was _worried_ now, Shelley ought to be _terrified._

* * *

He took time to be impressed by the quality of the pillowcase over his head: high thread count meant he couldn't see through the weave of the fabric, even in the bright room they eventually entered. The crew's execution was not perfect, however. If they had been intending to disorient him, they should have bundled the fabric closer about his neck. As it was, he was able to see out the bottom, and could therefore identify his surroundings, had he chosen to fight them off and escape.

He had seen the color of the van (black silver), the make of the tires (good quality, but entirely too expensive), the bottom edge of a green dumpster and dingy brick wall (back alley of their headquarters, judging by the distance they traveled), the stairway was concrete (fire stairs, not a public area), and the color and grain of the wood flooring in the room they eventually entered (also expensive). He had even identified the damn brand of shoes his would-be attackers were wearing. They _thought_ they knew what they were doing, but they only knew enough to be a danger to themselves.

His third captor, the one who had remained silent so far, cut the ropes on his arms, and he was unceremoniously dropped into a hard wooden chair. Before he could consider making a break for it, which he _wouldn't,_ because he was right where he _wanted_ to be, his arms were forced down against the arms of the chair, and lashed tight. Then another length of rope was snaked around him, drawing him up against the back of the chair. If Shelley were to be completely honest with himself, it was one of the better bound-to-a-chair situations he had experienced. Better in that he _didn't_ think he could escape it in five minutes flat.

The hood was finally yanked off, and he came face-to-face with Eliot's crew.

Shelley's chair was situated between and before a solid wood table and a kitchen island. Alec Hardison was easy enough to mark, at the far end of the table working intently at a laptop where, according to Eliot, he spent ninety percent of his time both on the job and off.

The jogger in the hoodie must be Parker, and Shelley berated himself again for not marking her in the park. She had fit the role _too_ perfectly, that should have been a warning light. According to Eliot, she was the most physically dangerous of the team after himself, but she sure didn't look it. There was an odd gleam in her eye though, as she stared at him, and she tossed a small taser from hand to hand, while sitting perched on the near end of the table, swinging her legs back and forth.

The legendary Sophie Devereaux was seated in another chair facing Shelley, legs crossed primly and hands folded in her lap, looking for all the world as though Moreau was not about to bring his wrath down around their ears. She seemed bored with the entire proceedings. And Nathan Ford, the thorn in Eliot's side, was leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen island, sipping from a ridiculously over-sized coffee mug. Apparently, someone thought he was the "World's Greatest Mastermind."

At first glance, the team was definitely at least as quirky as Eliot had described them, and Eliot was good at assessing people and situations so, Shelley would follow his recommendation and be straightforward. No beating around the bushes.

"Really, Ford? The taser I understand, but the pillowcase and van were a bit much, don't you think? I know exactly where I am."

Ford only shrugged. "It wasn't _my_ plan." And damn, but Eliot was right about that stare. It bored right through you, and you could _hear_ the gears of his mind whir like a well-oiled machine.

Parker stopped swinging her legs, and waved the taser at him, glaring. "You stared at my butt."

"Yeah, you're lucky she _only_ tased you, bro." The rhythm of Hardison's typing never faltered, and he never glanced up. No one spoke for a moment then, and Shelley took the time to reassess his situation. They were apparently not going to pepper him with questions immediately, but they must be wondering what he knew about Eliot's plans. He'd have to be careful not to reveal too much information to _them_. Eliot had been right again. Reasoning with these people was going to be like playing chess against a Grand Master. _Four_ Grand Masters. And it looked like he had been designated to play white.

"If you're trying to intimidate me, you should know I've been held and interrogated by people a lot more terrifying than you four. And I never broke."

"Nah, we don't play like that. Nate could just hypnotize you. But we wanna give you the chance to come clean on yore own." Hardison finally stopped typing and looked up at him with a self-assured grin. "'Sides, we know who you are already. Didja know Parker got close enough to take your picture?" No, Shelley did _not_ know that, and it kind of made his skin crawl now to hear it.

"Facial rec tells us you're James Shelley, achieved the rank of Staff Sergeant in the US Army, and honorably discharged. That's it. It's squeaky clean. As squeaky clean as Eliot's record which makes us very, very suspicious. I'm sure you can understand why." At this, Hardison took a bite out of some sort of gooey-looking atrocity, and chewed with a smug air.

So far, Devereaux hadn't uttered a word, but it felt as though she could read his very soul. He'd had captors, hardened killers and ruthless psychopaths, who tried to intimidate him with stare-downs less disconcerting than Devereaux who simply sat there. Shelley tried hard not to appear intimidated. Because he _wasn't_ intimidated. Hell no.

But he _was_ starting to lose feeling in his hands, and he he needed to do something to get himself untied. Time to move this conversation along. "It's not hard to guess Eliot and I were in the same unit. So, was there a question you wanted to ask me?"

"Why are you here, Mr. Shelley?" Ford took a sip of his coffee, and put the mug down on the counter, crossing his arms in front of him. His head tilted to the side just a little, and Shelley could nearly feel the physical weight of Ford's consideration of him.

"I go by 'Shelley.' _Just_ 'Shelley.' I'm a friend of Eliot's, and I have a message from him. If you'll just let me reach into my pocket..."

Hardison held up Eliot's recorder and waved it back and forth. "She also got close enough to pick your pockets. If you really _are_ a friend of Eliot's, he'd be very disappointed in you right now."

No shit. Shelley was finding it harder and harder to remain impassive. If these guys were _this_ good, why would Eliot not _enlist_ their help in tracking down Moreau? Why leave them behind?

Hardison set the recorder down on the table, and pushed the "play" button.

 _"Guys, Hardison, I know you're smart enough to have figured out what's going on by now. I'm not gonna tell you all to ignore it. What I AM gonna tell you is_ don't come after me _. I mean it._ _We tried it your way Nate. An' I appreciate what you were tryin' to do. I wanted it to work out that way, I really did. But now, I gotta do my job, an' that is keepin' you all safe. DO NOT come after me._

 _Sophie, I know you're thinkin' I'm a self-sacrificing idiot. Let me be one this time. Parker, sweetheart, before you lose it: I fully intent to come back alive. I am NOT leavin' you forever. I promised, remember?_

 _Nate, I'm leaving them in_ your _hands. That means, if you get them hurt tryin' to come after me, I hold you personally responsible. Get it? Take care of yourselves, keep an eye on things, but DO NOT get involved!_

 _I've sent Shelley to you because I trust him. Listen to him like you...no,_ better _than you listen to me, damnit! He'll keep you safe until I return."_

The recording ended, and the atmosphere in the room had become thick and heavy. No one moved for a moment, until Hardison reached for the recorder again, holding it tight as though it was a lifeline. "Damn."

Ford glanced at Devereaux, and she answered his unasked question without looking away from Shelley.

"He didn't sound under duress, but you know it's difficult to tell on a recording. He _is_ holding something back, but I do believe he trusts Mr. Shelley." She shifted in her seat, remaining perfectly coiffed and brought one hand up to inspect her manicured nails.

"Mr. Shelley is holding back as well." It was as if Shelley was now beneath her notice, a mere peasant in rags, groveling before an imperious queen. And it was unsettling as all hell.

 _"Are_ you holding back on us, Mr. Shelley?" Ford's gaze bored into him but he matched it steadily.

 _"Just_ 'Shelley', and all I know is Eliot wanted me to watch over you and deliver that message!" Which was essentially true, except he could make some very educated _guesses_ as to what Eliot's plans might be. "Eliot wanted me to take you all to a safe house. You must know this building is a target."

Devereaux continued inspecting her nails, then reported to Nate, as if she were a human lie-detector, "That much is true. He doesn't know what Eliot is up to."

"Okay, now that that's settled...If you'll just untie me, we'll get going..." He tried to move his hands in a placating gesture, but they were really quite numb by now. Parker had not moved since Eliot addressed her via the recording, but she stared at the opposite wall with such intensity, it seemed as though the wood paneling might catch fire. At Shelley's gesturing, she focused back on him, and waved the taser in his direction.

"What happens when we get to the safe house?"

"Well then sweetie," and he gave her his most charming smile, the one that melted the hearts of women every bit as well as Eliot's smile did, "you'll be safe, and I'll go help Eliot."

Devereaux dropped all pretense then and stared straight at him. "That's a lie."

Several things happened then, too quickly for Shelley to really follow. He suddenly found himself flat on his back, wind knocked out of him, and seeing stars from where his head had bounced off the kitchen floor. The chair back dug painfully into his spine. Parker's taser, right in his face and flickering, was held back from his skin only by the fact Hardison had grabbed her in a bear hug and was holding on for dear life. The hacker's chair had been knocked over in his rush to reach her, and she was still struggling hard against his grip. She was a lot stronger than she looked, and was also very nearly wriggling out of his arms. Devereaux hadn't moved, but Ford stepped forward and gently pried the taser from Parker's grip.

"Let's give him one more chance to talk, okay? Mr. Shelley, it would be in your best interest not to patronize her, or any of us. Understood?" Ford placed the taser on the table and tipped Shelley's chair upright again. Parker stopped struggling and let Hardison usher her back to the table, though she maintained a laser-like glare in his direction.

"Eliot was right. You are _all nuts!_ Untie me so we can _get the hell out of here!"_

"Hardison?" Damn Ford and his complete lack of concern!

Seemingly satisfied that their little psychopath wasn't going on the attack again, the hacker turned back to his computer. "Cameras aren't picking up anything unusual, and I set some motion sensors after we brought Mr. Shelley up here. Nothin's tripped." He fiddled with something small then, and Shelley noticed that he also had possession of his cell phone. Damn it!

"Mr. Shelley, you have one more chance to come clean with us. Did Eliot tell you anything else about his plans? Have you told us _everything?"_

"That is all I know, Ford. Eliot didn't share his plans with me." And he stared Ford down, thoroughly pissed off and intent on not revealing the one last thing Eliot _did_ tell him. Because he sure _as hell_ was not going to mention Eliot's last instructions: what pretty much amounted to his final will and testament. _Hell. No._

Ford held the stare for a beat longer then, "I'm inclined to believe you, Mr. Shelly, but the problem is this: If we accompany you now, I believe you will do _everything_ you can to prevent us from finding and helping Eliot. And that does not sit well with me. He may be your _friend,_ but he is _our family._ And unfortunately, that compromises Eliot's judgement."

Shelley opened his mouth to speak, but Parker stood from her chair, taser somehow back in hand. He snapped his jaw shut with an audible click.

"I believe you care about Eliot and want to help him. But, you're also a soldier and you'll follow whatever orders he gave you. Your loyalty will be to Eliot's _wishes,_ not to what is best for _him,_ because that's how he operates..."

And now Devereaux finally broke character to mutter something about "bloody idiots" and "self sacrifice."

"Eliot underestimates us sometimes," Ford continued. "We intend to help him _and_ look after ourselves, and we would appreciate it if you helped _him_ as well. So, we are absolving you of your duty, and asking you not to interfere in our business."

"That's a dangerous game you're playing, Ford! You'll be a distraction and you'll get him _and_ yourselves killed!"

"With Moreau loose we're all screwed, one way or another. But the odds are slightly better, for him and us, if we work together. He's forgotten that. Parker?" She stepped forward now and Shelley did his best not to flinch. To hell with surviving interrogation tactics, this was another beast altogether. But Parker held only a set of noise-cancelling headphones.

"Ford, wait!"

But the last thing Shelley heard was, "If you aren't babysitting _us,_ then that frees you up to help _all_ of us, including Eliot, who you claim is your friend. Goodbye, Mr. Shelley."

Parker slipped the headphones over his ears before dropping the pillowcase over his head again. The next thing Shelley knew was the sensation of the chair being dragged backward across the floor. When it came to a stop, he felt a slight displacement of air, as if caused by a closing door. Locked in the closet then. That wasn't exactly new, either.

-TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I hope this is the longest gap between chapters, but no promises. Thanks for hanging in there with me. Much angst and introspection in this one...**

Chapter 4

"Couldn't you have gagged him, girl?" Hardison glanced up from the careful packing of his necessary gear. He frowned toward the closet door where a string of invectives only slightly less imaginative than Eliot's worst could be heard, albeit somewhat muffled. Parker was pacing in front of the door, though her usual pre-con frenetic energy seemed to be lacking. She appeared lost in thought, idly twirling her taser in one hand, but at Hardison's query she stopped and returned to the work table, taking up position next to Sophie, who had given up trying to help Hardison sort his gear when it became clear she was only getting in his way.

"Eliot says a person can suffocate from that if you're not careful and we're not trying to kill Eliot's friend." Parker pursed her lips, and shifted her eyes toward Nate, who had just returned from downstairs. "Are we?"

"Um, no Parker. We are _not_ trying to kill Eliot's friend. We may need him later. Okay guys, I gave Cora a _very_ sanitized version of why we'll be gone for a while. She promised to keep an eye out for anything unusual. And no," he turned toward Sophie, who appreared ready to object. "I don't think she or anyone in the pub will be in any danger. The destruction in San Lorenzo aside, blowing up our building here would draw too much attention, and I doubt he _simply_ wants to kill us. As long as we're not here, they should be safe."

Attempting not to dwell on that sobering thought, Hardison yanked home the final zipper on his computer bags, and shoved the largest one into Nate's hands. He knew they were waiting on him only, since emergency go bags for everyone were permanently stowed in Lucille. Facing the wrath of an impatient Leverage team, Hardison lingered long enough to reach under the work station and pull out _Hardy_. Yeah, okay, _Parker2000_ may have been a little on the nose, but Hardison thought it had a nice ring to it. _Hardy,_ though? Where did she get _that_ from?

He handed his second favorite girl in the whole wide world over to Parker who, with a puzzled frown, carefully took the green robot and cradled it in her arms. Hardison's heart melted just a bit at how strangely vulnerable she seemed in that moment, almost like a child given something priceless, but at a loss what to do with it. He spared just another second to give her a little grin. "Who knows babe, we might need some extra help, huh?" But the moment had passed, and Parker only reached out to grab his arm and tug him toward the door, leaving him barely enough time to grab one last bag from atop the work station.

Hardison was last out the door, but he paused again before pulling it shut behind him. With the noise-cancelling headphones on, and the closet door shut, there was no way Shelley could have known if they were still in the apartment, or had left twenty minutes ago. But the tone and target of his expletives had changed, and were now interspersed with the occasional faint thump or grunt, as if he might be seeking a way to loose himself from his bindings. Not a little spooked, Hardison pulled the door shut with a bit more force than necessary, and rushed to join the others who were already making their way down the fire stairs to the alleyway.

Parker leaned out Lucille's side door, waiting to slide it shut as soon as Hardison climbed in, but he dropped to his knees by the rear bumper instead, yanking open the small bag.

"Hardison!"

"Gimme jus' a minute guys. Believe me, I _know_ we're in a hurry. Eliot's friend up there sounds like he's gettin' ready to go _'T-Rex escapes the paddock'_ on us..." He fished around the bag and came up with a small screwdriver and a set of new license plates. "Lucille here has as many solid aliases as we do, let's put one to work." He secured the rear plate in place, then rushed around the vehicle to attach the front plate. "Now, she's just a family camper van outta the great state of Virginia, home of the most awesome peanuts and ham you can imagine!" He stuffed the old plates and screwdriver back in the bag, and climbed inside, grinning with satisfaction.

Nate didn't even wait until the side door rolled shut before he floored Lucille out of the alleyway, across a thankfully-empty side street, then turned to join traffic on a busier boulevard. With a huff, Hardison strapped into one of the rear jump seats near the van's computer bank. No appreciation at all! Not even an acknowledgement of thorough planning and genius foresight. Zip. Zilch. But then Parker, still hugging Hardy tightly to herself, turned and smiled at him, and for a brief moment, everything was right with the world.

* * *

Nate drove for a time in silence. He was less concerned with _where_ they went at the moment than that they simply put as much physical distance as they could between themselves and Mr. Shelley. Eventually, they would have to find a temporary base of operations. Eventually, they would have to discuss what to do next. But for now, they had a nearly-full tank of gas, and a lot of open road. It looked like there would be rain though, and they should find somewhere to hole up before things got nasty.

Despite his bravado with Shelley back at the apartment, Nate at the moment could see no clear path forward. There were Things To Consider, simple bullet points on a list in his mind, but he needed to weave them together into something actionable. Keep Shelley at arm's length, but within reach. Dodge death. _Find_ Eliot...and keep him from doing something he'd never be able to come back from. Because Nate was pretty sure he himself was at least partly to blame for this.

Nate knew what Eliot was capable of. He knew something of what Eliot struggled with. Eliot had killed, and not just in combat. And Eliot didn't _want_ to kill any more.

 _Nate, if I'm engaged..._

 _Do your worst._

It sounded like someone had spoken aloud, but maybe that was just Nate's conscience again, that pesky little thing he always tamped down even when he knew Eliot was right, but he felt like poking the bear anyway.

What right did Nate have to wield that sort of control over Eliot? No matter Eliot had essentially given him the power, but Nate didn't like it. He didn't trust himself not to abuse it. And too often, he forgot that Eliot was not some dog on a leash, to be set loose or brought to heel at Nate's whim. The first tiny drops of rain began to fall, pock-marking the fine layer of dust on the van's windshield. Nate barely noticed them.

The more objective part of his mind clamored that whatever Eliot was doing now, he was taking orders from no one but himself. That the actions he'd take to protect the team would have no root in Nate's directive at the carnival yesterday. _Only yesterday?_ It felt like decades ago. The objective part knew Eliot would have done whatever he had to with or without Nate's blessing. The objective part knew Nate couldn't have stopped him at the carnival if he had wanted to. And the objective part tried to ignore the obvious deduction to be made from that: that the team likely had no chance of stopping Eliot now, either.

And the objective part also knew there would be worse things than the folding of Leverage, Inc. if they lost their hitter and friend to his demons, figurative or literal. It would be like... _blue-tinted lights_...No. Don't put it into words, not even in your own mind. Can't think like that, too personal. Too painful. Focus on this: No matter how minuscule the chance the team had to stop Eliot, Nate had always liked playing the odds.

But where to start?

He cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of Sophie's probing gaze on him, but he kept his own eyes on the road ahead. "Look, guys, things snowballed pretty quickly back there, and we didn't really discuss this..."

"We're good, man." Hardison must be at Lucille's computer bank: the quick, deliberate rhythm of his typing the only sign he was well-immersed in something, and apparently not feeling any trace of the motion sickness he usually claimed to have when he wanted the front seat. Parker was silent.

"Nate," Sophie touched his arm lightly, and Nate was nearly certain it was _only_ a touch, and nothing more. "We _all_ want to find him, Nate. We _all_ want to survive Moreau. And we're all good with doing whatever it takes to accomplish both."

Faced now with the weight of the team's trust, solidarity, and determination, Nate swallowed down his indecision and uncertainty. Turned them toward pressing the team into helping him find solutions. It was time to lead.

"Hardison, what have you got?"

"On San Lorenzo, nothin' new yet. There still isn't any real media coverage. It's mostly being reported as 'just another' military coup in a country no one cares about." The intermittent raindrops turned into a slow drizzle. Nate switched the wipers on, and began to look for a quiet place to pull off and park the van.

"As far as Eliot...We know he doesn't have the phone I issued him, no earbud, and none of us knows where he lives, so I can't check traffic cameras around _his_ place. _If_ he went to an airport or bus terminal, he dodged all the cameras. So essentially, he's in the wind..."

"But _would_ Eliot leave the country?" Sophie turned in her seat to address Hardison. "We know Moreau's empire was extensive. Surely, he has people here to do his bidding, if he's not already on the way himself."

Sophie had put to words Nate's own thoughts. He _knew_ Eliot would remain close. Eliot had sent Shelley to them to be the guard dog, but Eliot was playing the bait. And he didn't need to spell it out to the team, they all knew their friend too well for that.

"So, I thought, maybe we could start with where we saw him last...huh."

"Hardison? We don't need any 'huh's' right now." But he had found one thing they did need, and pulled Lucille into a nearly-empty roadside rest stop.

"'Huh' as in I got a pretty clear picture of Eliot's _date_ from the pub's security cams...turns out she really _is_ a nurse at Mass General." He huffed a laugh, and Parker snorted. It was the first sound she had made for almost the entire drive, and a too-quiet Parker was never a good thing.

"That helps us how, Hardison?" Lucille could pass for a small family camper van, so Nate parked down at the end of the lot farthest from the road, where sleepy drivers would be expected to park and catch an hour or so of shut-eye.

"It's just...you know. For the most secretive, paranoid man in the entire world, Eliot ain't exactly shy bout sharin' his more 'colorful' escapades...I just thought, the way he said _nurse_ Gail that it was, like a euphamism 'r somethin'...Okay, look. They apparently took her car to a nice, but not pretentious, restaurant on the river. I got 'em both on security cameras going in, but only her leaving... _much_ later. 'Course the cameras don't cover the entire restaurant. Eliot probably snuck out the back somehow, maybe went for a swim in the Charles River or somethin'...anyway, that's the last place we know he was at."

"So, still not helpful." Nate flicked the windshield wipers off, and swiveled the driver's seat around, pretending to ignore Sophie's judgmental glare.

"Well, I mean...we gotta start somewhere, right? While we wait for Eliot to call Shelley or Shelley to call him?"

"Nate, he's right. We would be remiss if we don't make sure, _absolutely_ sure, that this nurse isn't somehow further involved." Still, Nate hesitated. Every fiber of his being told him they didn't have much time to find Eliot and convince him to accept their help. He was a juggernaut when he was in defensive mode, and this was more than just a simple protection gig. _Do your worst._ Eliot's _worst_ was nuclear.

But the team couldn't afford to make mistakes either. And if there was even the slightest chance this nurse was not who she seemed...well, at least they'd have something to go on.

"Okay. We start with the nurse."

* * *

 _Damien picked up on the second ring. "Ah, Eliot. I've been waiting for you to check in. Was there a problem completing the job? If I didn't know you so well, I would think you're losing your touch." There was a hint of humor in Damien's voice, a conciliatory tone like that of a receptionist when dealing with a simple missed appointment. Sure, Eliot. We can reschedule for a more convenient time. When is good for you? But one did not simply "reschedule" with Damien Moreau. He expected his wishes to be carried out with no delay._

 _"Yeah well, I'm declinin' the job."_

 _There was a fraction of a beat of silence, the huddled anticipation of thunder following a lightning strike. Then Moreau's voice came again, now with a cold steely edge. "Is this because you know the General personally? I never took you for the sentimental type, Eliot. Or perhaps you no longer have the stomach for the work?"_

 _"I'm goin' freelance. I ain't interested in working for a single person anymore. It was understood when I took your offer, I could walk away at any time."_

 _And here was the pivotal moment. There would be no going back now. All that remained was to see how cleanly he could walk away._

 _Eliot knew he'd never be clean again._

 _"Now, I'll tell ya what I_ do _have the stomach for, Damien." Here he paused, trying to gauge the weight of the silence on the other end of the line. How angry was Damien? How likely was he to heed the wisdom in what Eliot was about to offer?_

 _"I'll tell ya what I have the stomach for. I have the stomach to end any and every person you might attempt to send after me. You know I'm more than capable of that. And if you persist, I'll have the stomach to come after_ you _. So, save yourself the money, the headache, and the manpower and let me walk away. Forget about me, Damien. Forget about me, and I will keep your confidence, as I always have."_

 _Damien barked a laugh. It was a hollow, evil sound. "I would have been willing to forget you, Eliot. I_ had _forgotten you. But then, you came after me with your merry little crew. Perhaps I will take them from you one at a time...but what shall I_ do _with them? Killing them would simply be...anticlimactic. I wonder, how well could the incomparable Devereaux grift her marks with a face so terribly scarred no one would ever call her beautiful again? Or your hacker. How would he fare with no hands? Would Parker remain the perfect cat burglar with every bone in her delicate body broken? And your mastermind...Perhaps I'll return his head to you when I'm done with him."_

* * *

Eliot jerked awake, his strained hip protesting the cramped position in the driver's seat of his plain little sedan. Heart pounding, he took note of his surroundings, seemingly normal for the type of neighborhood where one could sleep behind the wheel of one's car without seeming out of place. And without being harassed.

He took a deep breath, pressing the heels of his palms hard to his eyes in an attempt to chase away the last vestiges of sleep. He checked his watch, he had drifted off only forty minutes ago, not quite as long as he had wanted to allow himself. Damien's last laughing words were the figment of his imagination of course, but they rang all too loudly in his head, driving him out of the cramped, claustrophobic, little car. He had to _move, fight, do something!_ But he couldn't. Not yet. He couldn't make his move until he knew just _how_ Moreau was moving. And the waiting was the hardest part.

So for now, Eliot would walk. He left the car behind, knowing in the unspoken understanding of this neighborhood, that it would not be molested in his absence. He would not be gone from it long, but he needed to work the stiffness out of his joints, and the ghosts out of his mind. He needed food, though his stomach churned at the very thought of eating.

His head throbbed. Yesterday's concussion, though mild based on his prior experience, was being exacerbated by a sinus headache brought about by falling barometric pressure. There was a storm coming.

Even out of the car now, alone on the wide-open sidewalk, Eliot felt as though the very sky was bearing down on him, trying to press him into the ground. At the same time, he felt as though he were caught at the top of a roller coaster, moments before the breakneck drop, or on the knife's edge between the click of a pressure plate, and the roar of death. It was an _expectant_ lull, a mere pause that carried physical weight.

Moreau had the patience and cunning to wait and plan his escape, to make sure nothing could go awry and that everything was perfect. Eliot had been prepared to wait for years for a move from him. This escape was bold, brash, attention-grabbing, but...ultimately anti-climactic. It did not fit what Eliot thought he knew about Moreau's methods. No, either he should have escaped quietly as possible and gone to ground for a while, or followed up this brazen escape with something immediate, taunting, and fearless. This lull wasn't right, but Eliot couldn't fill in the blanks yet.

Even pinned down in San Lorenzo, as he should be if Flores had managed to close the borders quickly enough, he'd have some link to his men world wide. He could have contacted associates in America immediately, since he must have known his escape would alert Eliot. He'd want to deal with the team personally, but surely he could have sent people to capture or at least _watch_ the team if he couldn't travel himself.

So why was there no sign of it? Why had there been no further move?

This reeked of distraction. But distraction from _what?_ Eliot's thoughts swirled, and that didn't help his throbbing head. He couldn't do _anything_ until he knew more. And he couldn't rush his contacts if he wanted to stay below the radar. He had to wait, and it chafed.

Eliot found himself longing for Hardison's electronic network, something he could use to search and watch anonymously, and not have to rely on contacts with dubious third-hand information and loyalty only to their own skins...but he ruthlessly squashed the desire to contact the team. He could not think of them as assets to be used in a war that was all his own. He couldn't be certain that something Hardison did, some database he pried into wouldn't in some way, tip off Moreau.

And you don't hide behind civilians. That was a tactic of the enemy.

* * *

The street vendor's glance lingered on Eliot's bandaged hand, but he did not comment. In this neighborhood, you didn't ask questions. There was a small park across the street, and Eliot chose a bench with good vantage points. He wasn't bothered by the light, misting rain that began to fall. Eliot ate mechanically, out of necessity rather than desire. Something in the back of his mind noted he would have enjoyed this meal under other circumstances (and that Parker would have enjoyed the finger-food aspect, and Sophie and Hardison might have turned up their noses at the color and texture), but it tasted of ashes to him right now. Ashes and blood.

Flores was supposed to contact _him_ when he had a handle on things, and each hour without word from the General made him more and more concerned. Eliot's first thought after they put Moreau away was to simply go in later and kill him, no matter Nate would be disappointed. Eliot knew the General would have allowed it, looked the other way even if he had not approved. But removing a man like that left a vacuum...and there were too many people loyal to him scattered all over the world. If Eliot killed Moreau, someone else would simply rebuild. If they _held_ Moreau, used his imprisonment as bait to those loyal to him...they may be able to root out the foundations of his empire.

They let it be known Moreau was imprisoned. They carefully fed information to the Italian. By her work, Italy and other countries were turning over and seizing Moreau's considerable assets. Moreau was a dealer in many things, but he had discriminating tastes, and had always been a collector of fine goods. Many of Moreau's assets were still tangible items: art, antiquities, things he could barter, sell, or hoard. And he was smart enough to scatter his stashes across the world.

Having eaten, it was time for Eliot to put to use one piece of the scattered bits of information his contacts had provided him. He opened his phone, and dialed a number.

 _"David's Used and Vintage Books,_ how may I help you?" The voice on the other end was welcoming, grandfatherly.

"You tell the woman with no name...If she knew about this beforehand, and didn't bother to warn us...if she is after that damn statue...I will find her. This is the only warning she gets."

"Who is this?" The voice was unflustered, imperious, all other affect immediately dropped. This was NOT the voice of a confused shop owner receiving a wrong number.

"Give her the message. She'll know who it's from."

Eliot ended the call, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The Italian was useful, but he still didn't trust her. Though she had ultimately helped them, she was motivated by her own set of ideals and loyalties, her own greed. Still, she could become an asset again.

An asset. It had been a long time since he had thought of people in terms of "assets" and "liabilities." He was tired of it. He was tired of running from his past. He was tired of _caring_. He was tired of _not_ caring.

 _"Perhaps you no longer have the stomach for the work?"_

Eliot stared at the bandages wrapped around his hand. Parker had done a great job. She paid attention to what he taught her. She cared. If Shelley had to give the team his _other_ message...If Eliot had his way, Nate and Sophie would settle down, Parker and Hardison would lead a blissfully domestic life.

They'd go nuts in a week.

So if that wasn't an option...he hoped they'd take his suggestion to bring Shelley in if they couldn't leave the work behind. Shelley was trustworthy, a good and loyal friend, and Eliot mourned that he had not been a very good friend to _him_ these last few years. Still, Shelley would look after _them_. The team was as safe as Eliot could make them right now.

The rain fell heavier. He needed to get moving. He'd been in one place for too long. His thoughts were too scattered, and he needed rest. Time to head back to the car, find a place to hole up and wait for news. And soon, it would be time to check in with Shelley.

-TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: My apologies for the wait, there's no excuse. Except for work. And gardening, now the weather is cooperating. I'm reaching a point in this story where some unsavory details of Eliot's past are going to start showing through and it's been difficult to write out, even though it has to happen. There's a reason for his reputation, and we know he's not always proud of it. They aren't terribly graphic details _yet,_ but take this as a warning for future chapters. Oh, and Hardison uses some minor language his Nana might not approve of but all things considered, I think he can be forgiven.**

* * *

Chapter 5

Outside Lucille's comforting closeness, the rain continued in a slow drizzle. The storm didn't seem to be intensifying, but it wasn't letting up either. Weather reports had forcast a period of unsettled weather over the next few days, but other than reflecting the somber mood of the situation, the weather ought to have been neutral, a non-entity. Even so, Nate found his uneasy mind attempting to categorize all possible ways, no matter how tangental, the weather could help or hinder them. He usually found comfort in knowing all variables within a given situation, fitting them into predictable and precise categories.

It also gave him something to focus on as he reclined at Lucille's computer bank, watching the stationary dot that was Mr. Shelley back at his apartment, and the blank window awaiting action from the man's phone. Running variables based on the weather should keep his mind off the carnival.

It wasn't working.

Nate thought he had convinced himself that his exchange with Eliot at the carnival had no bearing on Eliot's actions now, of course they didn't. When Molly had been abducted, her safety became the team's primary focus and Eliot would do _whatever_ he had to to ensure her safety. Any of the team would: it was understood.

So why would Eliot even put that option into Nate's hands yesterday? As if Nate would want him to hold back that instinct, do anything less than everything in order to rescue a child. The thought plagued Nate's restless mind, and he couldn't push it aside, no matter how hard he tried to remind himself that his focus needed to be on _finding_ Eliot _now_. They could deal with everything else later.

But when Eliot deemed the current threat to the team to be neutralized, what then? He had promised on the recording to return to them if they stayed out of the fight now. However, the more Nate dwelled on Eliot's query yesterday and on his own reply, and the more he bounced them around and around in his head, the more his brain wanted to translate the entire exchange as: _What would you think of me if you_ saw _me at my worst?_ And that was not for Nate alone to answer. And if Eliot thought Nate was the only one at all privy to the events that transpired in the warehouse in DC, then he was sorely mistaken. Nate was sure Hardison at least had done some snooping, but none of the team was _that_ dense.

Giving up on running variables as a distraction, Nate allowed himself to think back to just before that, to the park where Eliot had ripped open and laid bare his own heart to them. It had been disconcerting in that moment, to see Eliot so openly vulnerable, so close to the edge that even Parker, worst among them at reading people, had known not to pursue the matter.

 _What would you think of me?_ Nate was beginning to believe Eliot might _fear_ the team's answer.

What had Nate said back then? Eliot might have to be 'that man' again to get them into the auction? Of course there had been a workaround, but for Nate to have spoken so flippantly, to imply that he'd point to a target and just expect Eliot to dispose of it? So much like he imagined Moreau must have done...that was unforgiveable. His own admitted and embraced shortcomings aside, Nate knew he never wanted to become the kind of man who would treat his friends in that way. Friends, or something like it. He had long ago given up pretending to himself that these people meant nothing to him.

Especially not with what happened later, and the change Nate had seen in Eliot when he picked up the fallen gun, like he had flipped a switch inside himself. And that was something Nate never wanted to witness again.

And while he was in the mood to dwell upon and admit his faults to himself, Nate dearly wanted a drink. But there was no hidey hole or secret cabinet inside Lucille that Hardison did not already know about, and so Nate had never tried to stash anything within her walls. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to will away the headache that was building at the base of his skull.

"I thought we were finished keeping secrets from each other. The kind of secrets that affect all of us..." Sophie spoke aloud for the first time in the better part of the last hour. Nate opened his eyes again and regarded her, though she remained staring out at the persistent drizzle. She was hunched into herself, her coat fluffed up around her, not unlike a broody hen taking residence in Lucille's front passenger seat as though it was her nest.

Before Nate could even think to answer her, there came a sound at Lucille's side door, a precise rhythm of taps, and Nate shook off his dangerous downward spiral. He slid the door open to reveal Parker and Hardison, she bouncing on the balls of her feet, and he rubbing gingerly at an impressive welt on his left cheekbone. They were both soaked through. Behind them, parked next to Lucille was an unremarkable late-model blue Honda Civic. Nate frowned.

"It's a little small, isn't it?"

Parker slipped past him into the van and shook herself, not unlike a canine, drawing a mild and half-hearted reprimand from Sophie.

"Small means fast, it's common, and there's no tracker so it'll be impossible for the cops to find even if it was right under their noses." She snorted a laugh. "Just like that time in New York." This last was said half to herself, as though reliving a fond memory.

"Okay, okay, fine. What about the nurse?" Nate directed this question at Hardison, who was sheepishly avoiding looking at anyone, so Parker filled in the blanks.

"Eliot's nurse probably really is just a nurse, and she seemed to reeealy like Eliot," this came with an exaggerated waggle of Parker's eyebows, "but she didn't like it when Hardison said she was one of 'those' kind of women."

This earned Hardison a glare from Sophie, and he rushed to defend himself. "Hey, hey! I never _said_ she was like that...just that it was surprising Eliot would go on a real 'date' you know? Talking books, movies, normal date stuff..." Sophie's look turned withering and he trailed off. "She slapped me, okay? Ya happy? Anyway, she didn't know why Eliot cut the date short other than he had 'family trouble.'" This came out in a rush, complete with those damned finger quotes that had strangely seemed to define Nate's morning. Hardison took his usual seat, and Nate returned to the driver's seat, which he swiveled backward to face everyone.

Hardison checked his screens, and tapped the keyboard a few times. "And she didn't see where he went when he left...Ya know, Nate, I hear you thinkin'...it was a waste of time. _I got it!_ But you ain't been puttin' out any solid plans either, just sittin' here broodin' since we left your place..." He poked again at his keyboard with rather more force than was completely necessary.

"We need protein." Which might not have been the strangest thing Parker could have said in that moment, but it had the benefit of distracting Nate who was more than willing to get into a yelling match with Hardison for the simple reason it _would_ be better than just sitting around brooding. Which, of course, Hardison had been correct about. Nate didn't need the reminder that for all his bravado with Mr. Shelley, he truly had little idea where to begin. His mind suddenly dredged up the incongruous image of himself, eight years old, in stocking feet trying unsuccessfully to run across his mother's freshly-waxed floor. A lot of effort, not much headway.

"Parker?"

Parker sighed. "Hardison is 'hangry' and Nate still has a hangover. Eliot would be mad that none of us ate breakfast. And he was supposed to _make_ us breakfast." The last sentence was muttered toward Lucille's carpeted floor. Parker had her heels up on the seat with her, arms wrapped around her calves, and chin resting on her knees. She looked terribly young and lost in that moment.

Nate's own stomach gave a sudden growl as if just remembering that it was already...he surreptitiously checked his watch. Damn, past noon. Very, _very_ far past noon. He had been so insistent that Parker get them an untraceable vehicle, and that they hurry back and not waste too much time on the nurse angle...would it have been that hard for him to suggest they bring back food?

Irritated with himself, Nate made an executive decision. "Fine. Hardison, find us a temporary headquarters. No mansions this time, no safehouses Eliot already knows about. Somewhere we won't be noticed and where we can hide Lucille. Then, we'll take the car Parker got us, and go find somewhere to eat."

Hardison's computer bank beeped. "Hold that thought. Looks like Shelley's loose...and there's a call comin' through to his phone."

* * *

Shelley stood in the open floorplan apartment, under the scrutiny of a rather creepy portrait, rubbing alternately at his chaffed wrists and bruised shoulder. When he finally caught up to Eliot's people, he'd have to remember to thank them at least for their thoughtful use of a natural-fiber rope. It had made chewing so much easier. But the hinges and lock on the closet door had been heftier than strictly necessary, and he'd had no room for a running start.

Finally free and not too terribly damaged, save for his bruised ego, Shelley stared in thoughtful consideration at his phone. It had been set carefully in plain view on the end of the team's work station. It was a blatant taunt, but Shelly wondered why they would even bother. The hacker must have cloned it or spoofed it or whatever he did to it. Why not just take it with them if they intended to try tracking Eliot? Whatever the reason, Shelley was not gonna take the bait.

Except...Eliot was due to check in soon, might already have tried to call. Shelley had lost track of time, and hadn't been able to hear a damned thing while in the closet. To add insult to injury, their little thief had taken his watch. When was Eliot due to call? Had he already called and had his people gotten a fix on his location? If so, he might already have dumped his compromised phone...which meant no more contact with Shelley since Shelley's own phone was compromised. Okay, no problem, he could work solo just fine. Problem was, he knew next to nothing about how Eliot's people operated. He hated working a job with no intel.

If Eliot deemed these people worthy of his time, then they were no idiots. Hell, the brief period of time Shelley had dealt with them himself showed him that. They were strange, unorthodox, but certainly capable, and Shelley wondered again why Eliot would not accept their help in his quest. But that was not for Shelley to question now. He had agreed to look after Eliot's people and that's what he intended to do. He just needed to figure out where to start.

He rubbed absentmindedly at the shirt collar against the back of his neck, and his finger brushed something small and foreign. _The hell?_ He plucked it from his collar and stared dumbfounded at a tiny tracking device in the palm of his hand. Quickly, he patted himself down and came up with four more of the offending devices. _When had they...?_

No matter. Shelley dropped them to the floor and ground them to grit under the heel of his boot. Next order of business, search the apartment for anything useful in finding these people. It didn't seem likely, but he would be remiss if he didn't at least check. He turned away from the work station, the useless phone could rot here for eternity as far as he was concerned, but the phone picked that moment to ring. Shelley stopped in his tracks and turned back toward it incredulous, as if it had just insulted his mother. It rang again.

If by some miracle, Eliot had _not_ yet been tipped off, and if Shelly did _not_ answer now, Eliot might assume the worst and launch WWIII. If Shelley _did_ answer now, he would most certainly compromise Eliot's location since the hacker had definitely done _something_ to the phone. _Damn_ it.

Split-second decision made, Shelley grabbed the phone before the second ring ended. "Eliot, dump your phone... _Luxembourg."_ He hung up before Eliot could even begin to speak. Shelley flipped the damned thing over, intending to remove the battery, snap the SIM card, crush the screen, possibly run over the offending device with a steamroller if the opportunity arose. He had not even gotten the battery cover open when it vibrated in his hand, and he gingerly flipped it back over to see a text message, bold and taunting, filling the screen.

 _If you keep this phone with you, we may let you catch up to us._

Damn. It.

* * *

"Eliot?"

"Shelly warned him, ended the call too quick to get more than a general location that covers half of Boston. But...heeeeey...Shelley's textin' me back..." Hardison leaned forward to read the long reply, then quickly tried to block the screen from their view.

"NOT cool, bruh! That kinda language ain't fit for the audience in here! We got ladies with..." he glanced sideways at Parker, who was curiously trying to peer at the screen..."with delicate sensibilities!"

Nate brushed his arms aside to read the reply for himself. "Well, at least it looks like Mr. Shelley will keep the phone. And we knew we probably wouldn't be able to get a fix on Eliot's location anyway."

"Well, if he changes his mind about the phone..." A few key taps later, and Hardison brought up a list of the tracking devices Parker had managed to plant on him. Five were flashing red, a sixth was still green. "Killed five buuuut...he missed magic number six! We are _golden!"_ Hardison reached over to hi-five Parker, then did a little spin in Lucille's chair. Nate grabbed the chair and turned him back to the computer bank.

"The problem now is whatever 'Luxembourg' meant, we can assume neither of them will risk a meet up. They're both much too smart for that. But at least now we know for sure he's still close."

"And now _he_ knows we're not safe with Shelley." This was the first Sophie had spoken since Parker and Hardison had returned. "You're deliberately distracting Eliot like Shelley warned us against. What are you trying to accomplish here, Nate?"

To break the laser-like focus he has on getting himself killed. Remind him we need him, that we'll accept no less than him. Remind him he has something to live for. Nate spoke none of this out loud. Instead, he put as much confidence as he could muster into his voice. "Buying time, hopefully. I think there's more to this than Moreau simply escaping. Eliot stayed close, which tells us _he thinks_ the danger is close. Otherwise, why not go to San Lorenzo to help out his friend, since he already had a babysitter in place?

"But, nothing has happened back at the building..." he glanced at Hardison, who shook his head, no tripping of his alarms. "There's something more going on here, some unknown element, and I'm not sure Eliot has figured that into his plans. We need to stop him from acting without complete information. And if he thinks Mr. Shelley isn't up to the job of protecting us, maybe he'll return to us of his own accord."

Sophie just shook her head. "Do you really believe that?"

Nate remained silent.

* * *

Eliot swore, a long string of invectives in mixed tongue. He didn't really care what language he used, it was more a mantra to focus on as he methodically disassembled his burner phone and tossed the pieces into the river below.

Eliot wanted to be angry, but he couldn't afford anger. Anger is how he had ended up getting his ass handed to him yesterday. It had almost cost him Molly, he would NOT let it cost him the team. He was well aware that when he fought angry he got sloppy. At the warehouse, he'd remembered to push the anger deep, not let emotion or fear rule him. Find the balance. Find the dead cold spot at the center of his heart, and embrace it.

That's what he needed to do now.

As he worked on his phone, Eliot tried to glean anything he could remember from Shelley's message. Tone of voice, any other code that might reveal if Shelley had been under duress. In their pre-dawn briefing, there had not been enough time to go over every possible contingency, but with long familiarity, Eliot trusted Shelley to work autonomously and think on the fly.

 _Luxembourg_...it was an assignment years ago where everything had gone sideways from the start. They had been compromised, but managed to pull it off with everyone intact. The fact Shelley referenced that job in particular gave Eliot the sinking suspicion that the team had given him the slip. The code would have been different, likely more explicit, if anyone had been captured...or killed.

Still, that didn't mean they were safe. Far from it. They were four loose cannons with no friggin' clue what they were up against, and incomplete information. Hell, _Eliot_ barely had clue what they were up against right now. Where the _hell_ was Moreau? Flores had not contacted him, and none of his contacts had heard a word, not even what continent he might be on.

 _Luxembourg_ also implied no need to reestablish contact. Eliot could assume Shelley had a handle on things, which was no less than Eliot expected from him. But damn it that his first instinct when Shelley had warned him was to turn away from the job at hand and find _the team_ instead _._ No way that could happen though, not when he'd been diligently working all day to put himself out as a target for Moreau. Chapman had been right, he must have gone soft. But he could not afford to be soft when their lives were at stake. Not soft, not sentimental. Cold. An emotionless machine. Remember the warehouse.

Still, he would have to keep an eye out for any sign Shelley DID need to get in contact. Another damn distraction! Eliot almost did want to contact Shelley...he wanted someone to yell at, so he could avoid having to find someone to punch instead.

Phone now thoroughly destroyed, Eliot was already on the move back to his car.

* * *

Lunch (or was it more of an early dinner?) had been a somber and quiet affair. There was no planning that could really be done, and watching Shelley wasn't yielding any results just yet. He had lingered at the apartment for a while, probably searching it for information on them, but he wouldn't find much. And now, he seemed to be wandering a random pattern throughout the city. He kept the phone with him, but if he was speaking with contacts, he was smart enough to cover the microphone.

Parker understood what Nate was trying to do. Even if they couldn't directly speak to Eliot, they could still get a message to him. _We won't settle for less than_ you. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the only thing they had right now. The thing was, Parker didn't think Eliot was entirely wrong in what he was doing, and she didn't think Nate was entirely right in trying to draw him back in.

Eliot wanted to kill Moreau. Nate hadn't wanted to the first time, but Parker was okay with the idea. If Eliot had to kill someone to keep the team safe, that didn't really bother her, although Sophie would probably say that it should. Eliot would only kill the people he absolutely had to kill. Parker accepted that. _The two of us, we do things they can't. Won't._ So, Eliot left them because he could do the things they couldn't. What actually bothered Parker about what Eliot was doing, was that Eliot didn't _like_ doing that kind of thing any more, and he didn't like the team knowing about the things he used to do.

After eating, back in the Civic with Hardison folded nearly in half and complaining in the back seat beside her, Parker pulled Eliot's recording device and a set of headphones out of her pocket. She listened through Eliot's message again. And again. Stop. Rewind. Play.

 _"Parker, sweetheart, before you lose it: I fully intend to come back alive. I am NOT leavin' you forever. I promised, remember?"_

Yeah, he made that promise on the night they returned from DC, the first time they encountered Moreau and hadn't quite won. She had known something was wrong with Eliot, and had followed him home and made him promise not to leave. He had promised, and she had believed him. And he had been so happy after San Lorenzo, that she had no reason to believe he would try to leave them again. And now Eliot said he intended to come back...but people _intend_ a lot of things, people _promise_ a lot of things, it doesn't mean they'll follow through.

And it wasn't like Eliot had never lied to them before. Not direct bald-faced lies, but he had lied by omission from the moment the Italian had first arrived and dropped Moreau in their laps. Eliot was capable of lying to them.

 _I fully intend to come back alive._

Parker listened to it again, tried to hear what Eliot was and wasn't saying. Sophie had said he was holding back on the recording. Parker wasn't as good as Sophie at reading people like that, but she was pretty good at reading Eliot. And she might not know much about how love worked, but she knew Eliot loved them. She was sure of it. Eliot was their family, he simply was. _That_ much, she understood. And so she was certain Eliot _wanted_ to come back to them when he was finished, but she was also beginning to believe he wouldn't _let_ himself do so.

"Parker? Honey, are you okay?" Sophie sounded concerned. No, no she wasn't okay. Parker felt like her chest was being hollowed out from the inside, but she didn't know how to explain that to these people in the car with her. And she didn't know how to explain what she thought was going on with Eliot.

Parker pulled off the headphones. "I want to go to Eliot's apartment. I want to check something."

"Well, that would be great, mama, if any of us knew where he lived. But our resident paranoiac likes to keep his secrets." Hardison tried to stretch his legs out into Parker's half of the back seat. She scooted over to give him more room.

"I know where he lives. Well, one of the places at least." All eyes were suddenly on her, even Nate's by way of the rearview mirror. Suddenly nervous under so much scrutiny, Parker gave a half shrug. "I've followed him home before. It's kind of a game: he tries not to be followed, and I try not to be seen." She turned to stare out the window, because she couldn't quite manage her usual smile at the memory of these kind of games.

"Mama, you got a strange idea of fun."

* * *

The moment Eliot secured himself satisfactorily in the cheap, run down motel room off the beaten path, he pulled out his fresh new burner phone and dialed Flores' number. It had been entirely too long since the General had been due to check in with him, and now with his old phone compromised and destroyed, Eliot was desperate to get in touch.

If Flores had caught Moreau quickly, he would have alerted Eliot immediately, and Eliot would have been able to return to the team. This delay, this not knowing where things stood was worrisome. Could Moreau have slipped through their web? And if so, what was he doing now? Even just half a day would have been long enough to bring his wrath upon them. The longer this was drawn out, the better the likelihood there would be no going back for Eliot.

He couldn't afford to dwell on that right now, though. Much to Eliot's relief, Flores answered almost immediately, and Eliot identified himself.

"Commander, it is good to hear from you! I apologize for my lateness in contacting you, but there was some concern the location we hid Vittori may have been compromised. We had to move him again, though all is well with him now."

Eliot sat heavily on the edge of the sunken mattress. The events of yesterday, the stress of today, no sleep in between, all this was catching up to him fast. He was _exhausted_ and in more than a little pain.

"You're certain?"

"Yes. The leak came from one of the people we have been watching from the start. He has been dealt with. Unfortunately, he could not lead us to Moreau, and I do not believe he was involved in the bombing. I am sorry to report there is no sign of Moreau at all. We closed the borders quite quickly, that was the point of our planning after all. I do not see how he could have slipped through but...Ribera is dead. I sent men to Moreau's old estate, the one Ribera seized when he had Moreau arrested. They reported that Ribera was displayed rather...biblically...upon the front gate, and his entire household, family and staff, were executed."

Eliot sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. He could imagine the scene, though he would prefer if his mind didn't paint a technicolor picture for him. Moreau had always been fond of bold statements. "In Moreau's eyes, Ribera was a traitor."

"As are you, Commander."

A traitor yes, but more than that, now an active threat. Eliot was well aware of what Moreau would like to do to him if he had the chance. And still, if Eliot had thought walking right up to Moreau and offering his life for the safety of the team would work, he wouldn't even hesitate.

Perhaps he had been silent for too long, leaning over his knees, staring at the threadbare and stained carpeting and trying to keep his eyes open. Flores picked up the conversation again. "The people have accepted me as their temporary President, and are...abiding...with the martial law for now. They know only that a dangerous man is on the loose who tried to assassinate their much-beloved President."

"Of course they'll accept you, you were the favored candidate running against Ribera in the first place."

"Maybe, my friend. But I am rather glad things worked out as they did in that election. I don't think politics agrees with my stomach."

Eliot couldn't help the small smile that came to his lips. Flores would always be a soldier at heart, happiest in the role of protector. Eliot couldn't fault him for that.

* * *

Parker had deactivated and reset Eliot's security system in record time, but Sophie didn't think she had even bothered to notice this fact. The moment the door shut behind the team, Parker was gone, off to check whatever it was that had been bothering her. Sophie, Nate, and Hardison were left standing in Eliot's almost austere living room.

"Well, this is pretty much exactly what I expected..." Sophie took in the uncluttered shelves, lack of any personal trinkets, and the utilitarian furniture in one glance, then turned for Eliot's kitchen. Here, things were a bit more interesting. Personal touches in the form of well-used but obviously cared for cutlery and pans, countertops and cabinets that were clean and tidy but also a bit dinged and scorched...something that was put to use rather than just for show. And also styled more...well...'farmhouse' than 'cutting edge.' Interesting.

Also interesting was the revelation that Nate and Hardison didn't seem to have as much interest in snooping around Eliot's home than they had Parker's. Maybe it was the knowledge that had Eliot known they were all here, he would be threatening their physical safety to no end? Sophie made a mental note never to tell him. Though perhaps...if Nate irritated her enough somewhere down the line...she smiled at the thought. She had just begun to open cabinets, musing at how very like Eliot it was to live above a little organic grocery store, when Parker returned to the living room.

Sophie stepped out from behind the breakfast counter and joined the others. Parker stopped in front of Nate, a small flat cardboard box in hand. A stained and discolored white cloth hung partway out of the open top, but it appeared empty otherwise. She was holding it close to herself, reluctantly, reverently, almost as if it were a beloved pet that had just passed away. Sophie could almost believe she saw unshed tears in Parker's eyes.

Not readily understanding the significance of the box or Parker's reaction to it, Sophie glanced over at Hardison. He seemed just as much at a loss as her. There was an odd gleam in Nate's eyes though, as he watched Parker cradling the box. After a long silent moment, Parker held it out from her body, and Nate took it. He raised it up, and sniffed gently at the cloth. "Gun oil."

Though Sophie didn't have any reason to believe Nate would be wrong about something like this, she found herself asking, "Eliot has a gun?"

Parker spoke almost absently, watching the box still in Nate's hands. "He keeps it buried at the bottom of a trunk in his closet. I found it once when I was snooping."

"Girl, what were you thinking?! If Eliot had caught you snooping..."

Parker turned toward Hardison. "No. He did catch me, but he wasn't mad. Well, not _mad_ mad. So I just asked about it, and he said it was important to him to have a reminder and to just leave it alone and forget it was there." Parker gave one of her half shrugs. "So I did."

To Sophie, the thought of Eliot, _their_ Eliot, with a gun hidden in his closet was almost too surreal to believe. But the evidence was right in front of her. Of course he must have used guns while in the service, and he presumably used them after, in that dark time he rarely spoke of. But obviously there was a reason he chose not to use them _now,_ a reason why he actively disliked them, so what did it say that he felt the need to keep one _as a reminder?_

The possibilities turned Sophie's stomach, and she found herself reassessing everything she thought she knew about her friend. "Eliot doesn't use guns, he doesn't like them...but he's kept one for years."

Nate nodded, meeting the eyes of each team member in their little, incomplete circle before finishing that thought. "And now he's taken it."

* * *

 _Eliot moved down the hallway, silent but not particularly worried about being seen. No one was awake at this hour, and he was not intending to leave witnesses anyway. He held his Glock low and to his side, out of the way but ready to use. There was a T-junction ahead, and he slowed his steps as he approached, bringing the gun up in front of him. The hallway ahead ran left and right, perpendicular to the one he was in now, forming the cross bar of the 'T'. Eliot hung close to the right-hand wall, intending to clear the left side hallway first, but a slight noise caught his attention, the barest scuff of feet on a linoleum floor. He held back. From the right-hand hallway appeared a young boy, no more than eight years old, leading an obviously half-asleep little girl who could not have been older than four. The boy did not turn down Eliot's hallway, but stopped and stared at something ahead of him that Eliot could not see from his vantage point. He pushed the little girl behind himself._

 _Overcome by a sudden wave of dread, Eliot abandoned his hiding place, intending to pull the children to safely, or perhaps place himself in front of them. But even as he was still moving, he heard the shots he knew were inevitable, saw the children fall, and threw himself at their killer. Their killer, standing emotionless and still, and raising the very weapon Eliot had held only a moment ago, because his own hands were empty now and he lunged for...himself? and the dead, cold, blue eyes showed no mercy as he pulled the trigger once again._

* * *

Eliot woke to gunfire and the smell of blood. He threw himself off the bed, battered body protesting every move, and backed himself into the nearest corner from where he had the widest view possible of his surroundings. Had he been shot? He couldn't immediately tell, it was too dark and he hurt all over.

Someone fired again. No, no. That's not right. A gunshot doesn't keep rumbling like that...

And if he had a gunshot wound in every place he now hurt, he'd have bled out already...Mortar fire, then? Shrapnel? He could still smell the blood, but he couldn't _see_ any on himself, or his surroundings. Where _is_ this? For a long moment Eliot stared in confusion at a dark stain on the wall to his right, wondering briefly if he had been successful after all, and if it was his brains and blood splattered there. But then, he wouldn't be seeing them, would he?

A bright flash of light revealed the lack of fresh gore on the old stained wall, and it was accompanied by another loud rumble, and finally his mind was able to process the sound. Thunder, Eliot realized. The storm was intensifying.

And the blood smell, he finally realized came from his own nose. A small vessel break, barely healed from the fight at the carnival must have reopened either from the pressure changes in the weather, or his own tossing and turning in sleep. It would stop on its own again soon enough, but the smell was suddenly so cloying, so overpowering, that he staggered to the bathroom and dropped heavily to the floor in front of the stained and cracked old toilet, and proceeded to bring up what little he had made himself eat that afternoon.

* * *

Outside the drawn curtains in Eliot's living room, the fading evening light had taken on a strange hue. Something unnatural and malevolent, a tinge better suited to the atmosphere of one of his WoW games than to the real world. Of course, that was just his imagination running wild, Hardison thought. All that was goin' on out there was nothing more than the lowering sky reflecting back city lights. He was pretty sure of that...fifty-fifty anyway. Or maybe they'd walk out of Eliot's apartment right into some post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Because the only reason Eliot would willingly pick up a gun would be to shoot zombies in the head, right?

And Hardison knew he needed to stop this train of thought because if he started laughing hysterically now (or maybe he really just wanted to cry), it would not be the proper response to the situation. Because if _Parker_ was solemn and not crazy right now, then that meant this was some serious shit, man. Serious as in...S.E.R.I.O.U.S.

And as if to highlight that this was some serious shit, lightning flashed outside, and was followed moments later by a rumble of thunder almost loud enough to drown out the ring of Nate's phone. Startled out of their own silent musings, the team looked to Nate who quickly handed the box back to Parker and pulled out his phone.

Hardison found himself hoping beyond hope that it was Eliot calling in to yell at them. Maybe he found out they were in his apartment and he was returning right this minute to break all their necks. Because right now, Hardison would welcome the world's grumpiest hitter with open arms, even if he knew Eliot could easily break those arms.

"Cora? Are you...what do you mean 'strange people'?"

 _Nate's building!_ Hardison dug his tablet out and brought up the security feed from McRory's Pub. He didn't immediately notice anything amiss. Nate sounded a bit concerned but not overly so. Apparently, Moreau hadn't traipsed right in with his Storm Troopers and blown up the place.

"No, no, if they haven't approached you, and they're not actually doing anything, just treat them like regular customers for now. We'll send you some help."

 _Go time,_ Hardison thought as he started typing out a message to send to their new little gofer... _Shelley, fetch!_ He chuckled a little, just to himself because to chuckle out loud right now would be to not properly acknowledge the Seriousness of this Serious Shit.

Nate closed his phone and turned back to the team. Sophie and Parker were watching him with something not quite akin to worry, but it was Hardison who Nate addressed first.

"Did we ever find out who actually bought the Ram's Horn?"

-TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Shelley finally gets to have a little fun.**

 **Warning for a bit of bad language in context, and some canon-level violence.**

* * *

Chapter 6

 _Possible trouble at McRory's. We need you to check it out._

The text message had been succinct, if a little vague. "Trouble" could have been anything from a clogged drain to an army of Moreau's goons.

 _I am neither your plumber nor your hired muscle, Ford._ Shelley deleted what he had typed without pressing SEND. The little pub below Ford's apartment was not strictly part of his agreement with Eliot, but if the "trouble" had anything to do with Moreau, that made it Eliot's business, which did technically make it Shelley's business as well. And truth be told, Shelley had never been one to let innocent parties get caught in the crossfire. He sighed, typed _stand by_ instead and tossed the cell phone unceremoniously onto the front passenger seat.

 _If_ he played Ford's little game for now, _maybe_ they'd actually call him back in before they did anything _too_ stupid. He started his car, waited for an opening to merge into traffic, and began the long drive back across the city of Boston. He might as well keep busy since none of his own inquiries had panned out. He had found a very superficial file of the team's past clients at the apartment, but had pretty quickly given up any hope that one of them may be sheltering the team. They truly were the good guys it seemed, and Ford wouldn't be putting any of them in danger now.

* * *

At first glance, McRory's was just what it purported to be: an old-fashioned neighbor Irish pub. It was unassuming, tidy, and seemed to have a friendly atmosphere. Shelley drove past it once, checking for anything out of the ordinary on the outside. Seeing nothing, he drove several blocks up, parked legally at a curb, and walked back. The afternoon was fading toward evening, thunder rumbled closer, and the sky suddenly opened up, drenching Shelley before he had made it half a block from his car. Rather than being an inconvenience however, his sodden clothes gave him good cover as he slid onto an open stool along the bar. Now he could look like an irritated and unapproachable passerby seeking refuge under any cover he could find. Otherwise, he might have drawn too much attention from some of the regulars who might have felt too inclined to chat up a stranger.

He motioned to the bartender further down that he was ready to order, then studied the mirror behind the shelves of bottles. The four asian men gathered at a round table in a back corner were so glaringly out of place in suits and ties, that Shelley scanned the room several times trying to pick out the _real_ threat. The pub may have had a strong old Boston-Irish theme, but the clientele Shelley had noted seemed to represent a solid cross section of the changing neighborhood dynamics. Even so, these men didn't fit.

All four were impeccably dressed, though it was very obvious that three of them were bodyguards for the fourth: a much older, wrinkled and wizened man, but with a shrewd air about him. The younger three were more stout and heavily muscled than the average Korean man which, after a time, Shelley concluded to be their ethnicity. Their suit coats were cut, and hung from their frames, in such a way as to accomodate concealed carry. Despite this, Shelley did not for a moment doubt they were also trained in unarmed combat, and may also carry other weapons.

They were entirely out of place, and the dry appearance of their clothing suggested they had been sitting here for some time _before_ the rain began and had not come in simply to wait out the storm as Shelley was pretending to have done. He took his time studying the other patrons, he had been caught unawares much too often this day...but there was no one else remotely out of place in the pub. A lovely young redhead approached him from the other side of the bar, but before Shelley could give her his order she spoke, voice pitched low for his ears only.

"You're Shelley? My uncle Nate described you." She set a bottle of the house special in front of him. "Those men haven't done anything since they came in, like they're waiting for something. The back storeroom past the restrooms is open if you need it."

That would work, if he could get these men back there for a little talk. "Thank you, ma'am, and my apologies: things might get a little messy..."

"We're used to mess, and don't worry about the cops being called." She walked away, seemingly taking this all in stride. Just what kind of shennanigans did Eliot's team get up to around here? Shelley pretended to take a swig of the beer, and studied the men in the mirror again. He nursed the single beer for the better part of an hour, though the redhead, Cora as she eventually introduced herself, was quite adept at making it look as though he was ordering bottle after bottle and therefore, becoming a bit tipsy.

Outside, the rain began to lighten up, but the evening light had already given way to darkness. Time for the bedraggled "passerby" to move on. Shelley slid off his bar stool, deliberately swaying a bit as his feet hit the floor, as if he hadn't realized just how many beers he'd drunk.

He took his last bottle with him, gripped tight and held up against his chest as if he didn't trust himself not to drop it. He stood swaying gently for just a moment, ostensibly to get his bearings, then tripped and stumbled toward the back of the pub, where the restrooms were indicated.

As he passed their table, the Koreans' eyes tracked him, but the men didn't seem unduly interested, and didn't move to _keep_ him in their sights. Just as he passed out of the sightline of the bodyguard closest to the bathroom hallway, Shelley reversed the bottle in his grip and spun around, bringing the heavy end up hard against the base of that man's skull.

Even before the others could process this attack, Shelley grabbed a second guy by the back of his neck and slammed him face-first into the table.

That took care of the two men with their backs to him. The third man, further to his right, rose and reached into his suit jacket for a shoulder holster, but Shelley shoved Bottlehead sideways out of his seat into the third guy's legs. As the third guy stumbled backward, Shelley was already on the move around the table and had the man's arms twisted up and behind him, preparing to bodily shove him into the old man because any protectee worth his salt would also be armed and not rely soley on his bodyguards. But the man made no move to rise from the table, or reach for a weapon. He kept his hands in plain view and merely watched with dignified calm and no surprise at all on his face.

When Shelley paused, reassessing the potential threat, the man spoke, in slightly clipped, but impeccable English. "Where is Ford's _other_ little guard dog? I had rather hoped to discuss matters with _him."_

Shelley spared a quick glance around the pub, still shielding himself behind guard number three. Cora hadn't been exaggerating. The other patrons were looking on with interest but no one seemed unduly concerned by the sudden violence. It even seemed as though some currency might be changing hands. He really needed to have a talk with Eliot about the goings on around here.

Shelley made eye contact with Cora and she walked over to them boldly. To the old man, he said, "You are going to instruct your men to allow this lovely lady to disarm them without a fight. Your weapons will be returned when we have finished talking, as long as I am satisfied with your answers. Understood?"

Unperturbed, the old man merely nodded, remaining seated.

Shelley instructed Cora how to pat down and disarm Tableface and Bottlehead, who were too groggy and disoriented to put up much fight had they wanted to. He searched the third guard himself, then indicated the old man. "You, too."

Without comment, the old man gracefully rose from the table and allowed Cora to pat him down.

When all guns and blades had been secured by Cora in a lockbox behind the bar, Shelley indicated the passage to the back room. "Shall we?"

The old man led the way, followed by Tableface and Bottlehead, the former still trying to staunch blood from a likely broken nose. Shelley brought up the rear, frogmarching the uninjured third guard, still with his arms twisted behind him.

When all five reached the back room, Shelley released the third guard carefully, leery of backlash, but the old man merely waved all the guards over to sit at a large poker table. He remained standing, facing Shelley and seemingly not at all put out.

"You have a message for Ford's team, you speak to me." Shelley was certain the hacker must have this room fully wired, if not also the pub itself, so Ford was probably watching right now. It was creepier than even Orwell could have imagined.

The old man looked him up and down appraisingly, seemingly content not to begin with official introductions.

"Very well. I represent certain 'business interests' oversees. My clients have sent me here to...resolve...certain matters of a financial nature with Damien Moreau. Specifically, that he failed to present certain merchandise he had previously accepted payment for."

"Ford's team doesn't work with Moreau."

"We are aware. However, we are also aware he has recently escaped prison in San Lorenzo where he was beyond our reach. And we are aware he would like nothing more than to destroy those responsible for his imprisonment. My clients do not know of his current location, but they believe he will arrive here eventually."

"So, you were just waiting. This place is bait."

The old man inclined his head slightly. "My clients also believe Ford's team is responsible for the destruction of the merchandise. However, this will be overlooked if they stay out of our business now. Moreau ran with my clients' money _after_ the item was destroyed. They want their _restitution_ from him alone. It is rumored he is in possession of something far more precious than that which was destroyed. My clients consider that item to be...acceptable compensation."

For all the indirect language he used, the old man was straightforward and Shelley could detect no misdirection in his words.

"I'll pass the message on. Is there anything else?"

"Tell Eliot Spencer, if he allows us to take this item as restitution and does not interfere, my clients will consider the _other_ matter between him and themselves as closed. A 'clean slate' if you will. He and his team will not be further bothered by us. However, if he does _not_ stand aside..."

The threat was left hanging.

"Fine. But wait for Moreau somewhere else. They, and I, will not allow this building to become the center of a war zone."

The old man inclined his head once more. "As you wish. It is not our desire to draw unnecessary attention." Without waiting for instruction, the old man slipped past Shelley to the door. He beckoned his bodyguards, who followed him out and back up the hallway without so much as a sidelong glance at Shelley.

Shelley followed on the alert, but the men merely gathered their weapons from Cora and walked out the door without a backward glance. Shelley didn't bother following them further. The small mess at the back table had already been cleaned up, and not one other patron spared him a glance.

He took a seat at the bar again and ordered one last beer from Cora, leaving a more than generous tip and an assurance that she would not be bothered again. He didn't pretend to nurse his beer as he considered how he should inform Eliot of this development.

* * *

Hardison gave a low whistle as he replayed the one-sided fight at the pub for the tenth or twelfth time. "When this is all finished and we get Eliot back, we should hire Shelley. He could help Eliot fight out all his aggressions and maybe he wouldn't be so grumpy all th' time..."

"More likely, you'll simply have _two_ perpetually grumpy and very proficient hitters constantly threatening to break your fingers, instead of just one." Sophie didn't bother to open her eyes from where she reclined on the couch, behind Hardison's work table.

The evening sky had mostly gone dark by the time the team returned to the cookie-cutter suburban subdivision house Hardison had purchased for their temporary headquarters. Lucille had been stowed in the garage much earlier, and after viewing the events at McRory's, Nate and Parker had left in the Honda on a grocery run and to have, Hardison was certain, a completely non-verbal discussion revolving around whatever the hell they were thinking about Eliot that they wouldn't deign to share with himself and Sophie. Unless Sophie also knew what the hell was going on in which case, Hardison was definitely not okay with bein' the only one out of the loop.

That whole deal with the empty gun box back at Eliot's apartment, where Nate hadn't seemed at all surprised by Parker's revelation, was just...well, he didn't really know. It was like the two of them had come to some sort of conclusion about Eliot, but they were playin' it close to the vest and Hardison wanted to know just what, exactly, it _meant_. Because he had felt _something_ shift back there at Eliot's...he wasn't sure what, it was subtle. Much more subtle than, say, a _disturbance in the Force_ would have been. But something important had changed, and there needed to be a team discussion about how that might affect getting his best friend back to them safely.

"Hey, Sophie?" Hardison swivelled in his computer chair to address her.

She remained still, eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep there on the couch, but Hardison was sure she was merely waiting for him to continue.

He took a breath and plunged forward, taking refuge in the simple _act_ of speaking as he tended to do when he wasn't sure just _what_ to say. Most times, simply rambling on worked to his benefit, either by throwing another person completely off their game, or by eventually coalescing into what needed to be said.

"That thing about Eliot havin' a gun... I mean, it's like Nate and Parker know something we don't, unless you do, too...an' anyway, they're havin' this whole angsty telepathic conversation and leavin' us out of it and...well, I know Parker has communication issues sometimes and Nate's just a control freak who only shares when it suits him...but it's like the two of 'em know something we don't and they're keeping it to themselves just like we all agreed we shouldn't do any more, especially if it affects all of us like this does...and now there's _Koreans_ involved, and Eliot doesn't even _know_..."

Hardison stopped, took a breath to start again, but realized he had lost any momentum he might have had. Nothing was any clearer to him now after his rambling than it had been before he started.

Sophie sat up though, swinging her legs off the couch and leaning forward to rub at tired eyes. She sat still for a moment, as if gathering her own thoughts before speaking.

"We all know Eliot has done some pretty bad things in his past, things he's not proud of. It's not really a secret, but he still prefers not to talk about it..."

To Hardison, Sophie sounded less than entirely confident, not at all how she sounded when coaching one of them through a grift, which made him feel miles better. It was like she was still trying to wrap her own mind around the big revelation in addition to explaining it to him. At least he wasn't the only one who had been caught by surprise.

"We also know going up against Moreau the first time was very hard on him. There are things about his time working for Moreau that he _never_ wants anyone to know about..."

 _"'Please don't ask me'..."_ Before he could stop himself, Hardison voiced the memory. He saw the hurt of that memory flit across Sophie's face, then she composed herself again. Hardison had still been angry and hurt back then, and the confrontation in the park had not registered with him quite the same as it had with the others. Not until much later, when Hardison's head was cooler and he could see things objectively again. And by then, they were on their way to San Lorenzo and there was no time to dwell on Eliot's words. Now though, Hardison remembered Eliot clearly, remembered the sadness in his demeanor...his terrifying lack of confidence, his _fear_ at possibly being asked to reveal the worst thing he had ever done, but standing steady and giving the team that choice anyway.

Suddenly feeling like a damned naive idiot, Hardison leaned forward in his seat, dropping his forehead to rest in his hands with elbows propped on his knees. He felt the weight of the day's events pulling him down, but he took a deep breath, pushing away the anxiety that threatened to well up. The feeling was all too familiar from his childhood: every time one of Nana's children had to leave the sanctuary of her home. Even when he was too young to really understand the nature of the leaving, he'd known he would likely never see that brother or sister again, or ever find out what ultimately became of them. Though he had known some for only a matter of days, he considered them all family, and he'd come to understand that, despite the fact Nana wanted to keep them all safe forever under her roof it wasn't her choice, or theirs, to make.

But _this_ was Eliot's choice, wasn't it? To leave _them_.

"Whatever he did for Moreau, it involved a gun...Nate said in the park he might have to be 'that man' again...and Eliot, he...he's applyin' _then_ to _now_. He thinks he'll have to be 'that man' to keep us safe? And he's never wanted us to meet him, ' _that_ man'...he...he's not gonna want to come back to us when this is over, is he?"

Sophie's countenance showed nothing but compassion. "But you already knew that, didn't you? You didn't need me to tell you."

No, he didn't need her to tell him that. He had simply been denying it to himself. He had grabbed on to Eliot's promise to return, but now Hardison finally acknowledged to himself, the words on Eliot's recording had held an edge of finality.

This was so much more than breaking into a Steranko-controlled building to rescue Parker, so much more than helping Hardison maintain his ridiculous cover as the _Ice Man,_ more than just the cuts and bruises and broken ribs he regularly sustained to protect them...

Hardison remembered Eliot at the pool, so calm and collected in the face of such danger to them both. And the talk, much later, when Hardison realized just how much it had taken out of Eliot to stand by while he nearly drowned...Now Eliot was going up against a Moreau who could no longer be fooled, and he was fully prepared to die for them...no, not just that. He was _willingly_ delivering himself _to_ that death _for_ them...

But further meditation was cut off by the house's security system alerting them to the Honda pulling into the driveway. Hardison tapped a key and rolled the garage door up for Nate and Parker to pull in. They should have groceries and the agreed-upon Chinese takeout but right now, Hardison did not think he would ever be hungry again.

* * *

After purging the contents of his stomach more times than he cared to consider, Eliot dragged himself out of the bathroom and stretched out on the motel room floor, which was much more supportive than the sunken and sprung mattress had been. He had slept in much worse places, but he knew he wouldn't be sleeping anymore tonight.

His head throbbed and he felt feverish.

Parker had done a good job fixing him up after the carnival. He knew he didn't have any infection. He just wasn't resting the way he should be, to heal. The way he always wished he had time for when Nate got on a job bender. There was nothing he could do about that now other than ignore it.

The storm had moved on a bit, thunder still rumbled but it didn't crack and crash overhead as it had when he was violently woken earlier. Never one to fear storms, Eliot found himself unsettled as he stared at the gore-like stain on the wall, still not fully convinced he hadn't put it there himself.

There was a period of time in his life when he had stared at walls a lot. First, that horrid little cell: a gray expanse of cinderblock wall interrupted only by scratched-in tally marks that were at best a guess because he couldn't be sure he was properly marking the days...but even after that, back home, he found himself staring at a lot of walls, losing time.

It was something to watch out for, he was told. PTSD they called it. Survivor guilt, in his case. Because giving it a name, a _diagnosis,_ was supposed to be the first step in learning to deal with it. Learning to accept that you had done everything you could in the situation and realize that what happened wasn't your fault...that was all well and good but it didn't _fix_ anything, did it?

Because it couldn't bring his team back, it couldn't reverse time and stop the betrayal that ultimately killed them. It couldn't give him a chance to make things right. Nothing could. They had _offered_ an honorable discharge, making it sound as though he actually had a choice in the matter, but Eliot knew _who_ had set it in motion though damned if that man would ever be held accountable for _his_ actions. He was untouchable.

And it was probably Eliot's digging that got his team sent on the suicide mission anyway. At any rate, that king of all weasels had not been happy to see him alive upon his return. It had been clear, when Eliot finally escaped his captors and made his own way to friendly territory, that there had never been a rescue attempt made, that it was believed the entire team had been eliminated. It had been one of those deniable operations: failure was...well, it never happened in the first place.

So he'd been given a medal which on the surface, by the book, he more than deserved. But if they thought it would buy his silence, they needn't have bothered. Because one thing Eliot would never do was reveal classified information, even if he was assured of doctor-patient confidentiality, and even if it might have revealed a clusterfuck of the highest order.

It had been _recommended_ that he seek some sort of therapy, though the recommendation included a not-so-thinly veiled reminder that _nothing untoward happened during that mission, correct, Spencer?_

 _No sir. What mission, sir?_

So Eliot tried the therapy they recommended, all of one group session before it became clear that the _civilian_ therapist he had been pointed toward had not a friggin clue how his soldier's mind worked. And it didn't help he couldn't speak in more than the vaguest terms.

So, he couldn't _actually_ say: _no, ma'am. I didn't do everything I could have, back then. I didn't fight hard enough to keep that weasel off my team, the one planted there by the biggest damned weasel of them all. And I didn't pay close enough attention to that weasel, and I let him sell us out, and I didn't fight hard enough to avoid capture, or work hard enough to effect an escape for my team, not until it was too late. And I_ didn't _die_ with _them. So yes, ma'am, it IS my fault I'm here and they're not, and no I don't think I should forgive myself._

So all he could say was: No, ma'am, I have no idea what career I want to pursue now I'm in the private sector, but I'm sure my dad's got an opening in his hardware store. No, ma'am, I won't be at next week's session. Yes, ma'am, when I'm ready to come back, I'll be sure to call.

Late into the night, Eliot simply listened as the storm raged itself out, and at some point, he must have drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, reliving mixed memories of his teams, past and present.

Morning dawned oppressive and heavy, with the promise of more storms. Eliot needed to move. Intellectually, he knew he should eat, but he wasn't even going to try it. He knew he was pushing himself into dangerous territory, but he had often accomplished more with less. He knew his limits.

His first stop was the corner convenience store for a terrible cup of coffee and the morning newspaper which he opened to the classifieds and saw the message he had been hoping he would NOT find.

* * *

"I'm tired of buyin' and destroyin' burn phones, Shelley. And if this call puts me on Hardison's radar, I'm blamin' you. Where's my team?"

"Good morning to you too, Eliot. Look, I am sort of in contact with your team so they're not completely missing but we don't have a lot of time until that hacker of yours figures out what I'm doing...Eliot, the Koreans are involved in this somehow."

Shelley tucked his new burner phone between his ear and shoulder, and turned a page in his own newspaper, taking the moment to scan his surroundings. Nothing amiss.

Eliot's pause carried the weight of consideration. "...Which?"

"What do you mean 'which'...you know, I don't need to know how you managed to piss off _South_ Korea. That'll be a story for another time. No, a _North_ Korean crime boss, didn't give his name, really has it out for _you_. Said he's not interested in your team, but he wants you to step aside and let them get some item as "compensation" from Moreau, because he screwed them over."

Shelley was certain he could _hear_ Eliot pinching the bridge of his nose. "Damnit. That statue really is cursed. How'd they find out about it?"

It sounded like Eliot might be talking to himself, but he wasn't making any sense. "...they didn't say. Eliot, what's it matter? They know, and they want it, whatever it is. What _is_ it, Eliot?"

There was another pause then Eliot spoke again, sounding rushed this time, and Shelley felt his heart rate tick upward. "Not important. You gotta find my team an get 'em out of Boston. _Today,_ Shelly!"

"Eliot? If North Korea's involved, shouldn't we bring in some extra help? Vance has resources..."

"Not Vance. We can't worry about it anyway. Moreau's the bigger threat."

Now Shelley began to wonder if they had taken a left turn into the Twilight Zone. He dropped the paper, giving up all pretense as he tried to reason with his friend. "North Korea's _not_ a threat? Look, I know you and Vance aren't very close any more but I think this can be considered a significant threat. He has resources..."

 _"Not Vance!_ It ain't North Korea as a whole, anyway."

"Eliot, do you realize how you sound? This has gone well beyond a simple protection gig!"

"Yeah, speaking of which, how did you manage to lose them after I warned you, huh? Ya really need help? Want an excuse to get your buddy involved? Have him use his satellites and figure out where Lucille went! Hardison likes to buy property. Look for recent quick home sales. Something with a garage big enough to hide Lucille!"

And with that, Eliot hung up. Shelley stared dumbfounded at his phone. Home sales?

He knew the mention of Vance wasn't going to go over well, but he had to try it. And this was getting much too big for just Eliot and Shelley to handle. Eliot was a man of few words, but he generally used them well. This conversation made no sense at all to Shelley and it was beginning to worry him.

And just who the hell was _Lucille?_

* * *

He hadn't been fair to Shelley, but the mention of Vance had made his blood boil.

 _Unofficially, Eliot, I'm sorry. You don't know how much I wish things had gone differently. Officially, Spencer, talk to someone. Just remember:_ _nothing untoward happened during that mission, correct, Spencer?_

 _No sir. What mission, sir?_

Eliot crushed his empty coffee cup and dropped it into a trashcan. He felt like punching the can, punching the nearest telephone pole, punching the nearest _person_. He stopped for a moment, forced himself to take a deep breath, and another. He needed to calm down, remember to blend with the crowd. He would draw too much attention if he stalked down the street furious at the world. And he needed to focus for this next conversation. Something was very wrong here, but he didn't have enough information yet. The fact these particular North Koreans were _here,_ waiting for Moreau, was worrying enough. But that they knew about and were after _it,_ well...Boston could very well burn before the day was through.

Another deep breath then, satisfied that he was as calm as he could manage at the moment, Eliot once again keyed in a phone number.

She answered on the first ring, her familiar haughty and accented voice distinctly chiding.

"There was no reason to speak to my father in that manner, Mr. Spencer. He is a harmless old man."

"Yeah. I'm sure he's harmless as an entire pack of skinwalkers. An' if he's your _'father,'_ then I'm Gandhi's cousin."

"Believe what you will. Blood relation or not, family is important, no?"

Eliot stopped cold, replaying in his mind those words, scanning them for any intent, yet finding none. Still, they left him uneasy.

"Let's get to the point. Right now, I don't think you had anything to do with helping Moreau escape."

"Of course not. Why would I want him out when I have worked so long in trying to capture him? Long before your team ever become involved."

"Before _you got us_ involved, you mean. What i'm wonderin' is if you _knew_ he was gonna escape and didn't tell us. And the reason I'm wonderin' this is because I think you're after a certain something and you haven't been able to find it on your own, and maybe you were hopin' you'd be able to follow him _to_ it. How close am I?"

Now, it seemed, was her turn for an uncomfortable pause.

"And if that were true Mr. Spencer, what then? Do you think I would leave a dangerous man like that to roam free?"

"No. I think you'd kill him once you had what you wanted. Or try to anyway. You think he is at his weakest right now, his empire splintered, am I right? And that you'd have just enough time to get rid of him once and for all before he pulled the scraps back together. You'd be wrong."

"And what is it you think I am after? You know I have been working with countries to have their artifacts returned and yet you have not revealed all the locations of Moreau's stashes to me. You still don't trust me."

"'Course not. You're driven by your own code. Much of what you do ends up bein' good, but there is a greedy little part of you that wants what you think Moreau has..."

"We _know_ he has it and we are not the only ones after it. Not three days ago, my men were engaged by an armed force during a raid. These were not Moreau's men. We believe they were civilians, but with military-grade weapons and training."

"Who?"

"The weapons were American, but the men had no identification and wore no insignia. They were all killed as were a number of my men. Whatever you may think of _me,_ Mr. Spencer, the men who were killed in this confrontation were doing their jobs, they had no vested interest in this. They were good honest men, fathers and husbands. Brothers."

"Then you have my condolences, but stay _out_ of this. That item is beyond the reach of anyone." It was the one thing that had caused Eliot the most worry _after_ they had put Moreau away. Eliot had frankly not given a damn what might happen to Moreau's wealth: it was all blood money as far as he was concerned. But until Eliot actually had that one particular item dealt with, he had prayed fervently that the particular stash it was in would remain unfound.

Eliot started to speak again, hesitated...He was not sure if what he was about to say would be a mistake but it felt right, somehow. There was no reason to let her run into another blind confrontation. Not after she had already lost so many.

"The North Koreans are after it as well. I don't know how they found out, but you don't want to run up against them. Listen, you're as well aware of the stories about it as I am. Whether you believe them or not, whatever happens to you if you go after the monkey, it's on your _own_ head."

Eliot hung up, and stared at the phone. His head still pounded, the sun hurt his eyes, but clouds once again were building on the horizon. Who had the Italian's people engaged? Who _else_ would know Moreau had the monkey? Specifically, who would _also_ have access to American weaponry and military training?

Who tipped off the North Koreans?

And just who had Eliot long suspected of being _in bed with_ the North Koreans?

That king of all weasels.

Could it be?

Could Atherton be behind all of this?

-TBC

 **A/N: To be clear, I am not making Eliot anti-military. He knows his experience stemmed from the corruption and greed of an individual, not the institution. Also, I am no expert in PTSD. I know only what I saw in both my father (Vietnam) and grandfather (WWII). Back then, this kind of thing "didn't exist" and you just sucked it up and went on with your life. Even now there is a lot of stigma attached, and not enough understanding of how soldiers especially are affected by it.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Warnings in this chapter for a bit worse than cannon-typical violence, a peek into the dark part of Eliot's past, and perhaps some language.**

* * *

Chapter 7

 _Full circle. The monkey and Atherton. It's come back to this._

Eliot was not given to dwelling on the past. Pick yourself up and move on. Don't repeat your mistakes, that was important. Learn to move past what you've done. _That_...was much more difficult.

There was no point in consciously analyzing the road of his life, and he didn't believe in portents and omens, signs and predestination. But if asked to pinpoint any one moment, some event, or even a _thing_ that would become the first marker on the road that led him to Moreau and ultimately to who he was now, it would be Atherton and his damn obsession with the monkey. Eliot didn't believe objects could in themselves hold any power or take any action. That belonged only to the bearer _of_ the object. There were, however, people who did believe in such things as curses, and those who knew how to take full advantage of another's belief.

How Atherton stumbled upon records or stories of that monkey in the first place, and how he had worked out its supposed location, Eliot didn't know, nor did he care. It was Atherton's _greed,_ what he had chosen to _do_ with his knowledge that had made him a blight upon the Army and the compass that first pointed Eliot down his road. But while Atherton may have been the catalyst, it was Eliot who had chosen to _take_ the road. His choices for good or evil had been all his own: he could have turned back at any time. Atherton was not to blame for the nightmare-in-flesh Eliot Spencer had ultimately become.

But he _was_ down this road, no turning back. And it was up to him to fix his sins before they could be visited upon the team. He had to find the connection between Atherton and Moreau's escape, and find _Moreau_ before his team could find him. Eliot gripped the steering wheel until his hands felt numb and his knuckles turned white. He had to remind himself to breathe.

Sometimes in the back of his mind, in the violent discord of post-nightmare workouts in the dark before dawn (when all he could see was the blood on his hands), or when he cooked endlessly and presented his team with a banquet (but all he could smell was blood and burning flesh), a still small voice wondered why they thought he was worth caring about. Why they never saw the bloodstains on his hands when he served them a meal. Why they couldn't smell the death that lingered always upon him. And why the meals weren't tainted by his very presence.

He couldn't hide himself from them any longer. He was too tired of trying to play the good guy. It should have remained one show only. When this was finally done, Eliot was going to make sure the team knew the encore was over.

* * *

He _had_ gone home, after his discharge, after that failed attempt at "therapy," but he couldn't make himself return his sister's embrace when she met him at the airport, and he refused to allow her to drive him to their childhood home. She dropped him at Willy's instead, where he had stowed his truck when he first enlisted, and where he then discovered Aimee hadn't waited for him.

He rented a motel room that night, picked up what few personal belongings were still at his father's house the following day, while his father was at the store, and still refused his sister's pleas to go see him. He drove back into Oklahoma City, where he took the first cheap apartment he could find. He needed time and space to think.

The therapist had asked if he had given thought to what he wanted to do after the Army. Yeah, he _had_ wanted to marry Aimee, maybe get out of that small town on the outskirts of Oklahoma City, and away from his father's store...but not too far, and not into a _big_ city. No radical changes, just different _enough_ to count.

But without the anchor that had been a future with Aimee, he felt adrift...and he had no real skills except what he learned in the Army. Cooking? Nah, he hadn't cooked for anyone in a very long time so he doubted he would remember much about it. And it wasn't like he had ever wanted to run his own restaurant or anything. That kinda pipe dream never worked out.

Working for his dad was _completely_ out of the question.

So no, he didn't know what he'd do...but he did have a very specific set of skills learned in the Army, and really nothing to lose now. He had heard a retired senior officer, someone he had ocassionally worked with before his retirement, now ran a private military company. He remembered hearing something about the company looking to hire. They were rumored to pay well for skilled bodies...could be worth checking out, he supposed.

* * *

What happened between Eliot and Colonel Vance? Wasn't that the question of the century?

It had been difficult enough for Shelley to pin Eliot down these last few years just to have a beer and reminisce as old Army buddies. But he had managed it once or twice, and there _had_ been that big job in Pakistan he got Eliot to help him with. Vance of course had brought the job to Shelley, but he hadn't been directly involved. It was one of those things where certain people needed plausible deniability. It had been Shelley's job all the way and now he realized, Eliot would probably not have hired on at all if Vance's name had been anywhere on it. Well hell.

There had been some reminiscing after that one but come to think of it, any time Vance had been brought up, Eliot had gotten reticent, quiet. And he wouldn't say anything until the subject changed. And he also hadn't shared much about current happenings in his life either, only that he had thought he'd found a steady job but it hadn't worked out after all. The way he'd said _that,_ and the way he'd shut down afterward told Shelley only that Eliot hadn't meant a nine-to-fiver.

And in the interests of their friendship and Shelley's respect for Eliot, he hadn't even dared to probe the Moreau rumor. He had been oh so damned curious, but he didn't want to lose this last, tenuous hold on their friendship.

 _What happened to you, Eliot?_ Shelley wondered again.

So he was not terribly surprised that mentioning Vance just now had not gone over well at all. But hadn't Eliot still _sort of_ given tacit sideways approval to contact the big guy? Well, maybe not approval, but at least not a rock-hard 'no'? Eliot had always trusted Shelley's judgment, but now Shelley was beginning to question Eliot's, and something had to give. He couldn't help feeling as if he was betraying Eliot just a little bit but Vance _did_ have access to resources and a _lot_ of satellites.

The Colonel's phone rang only once. Shelly gave the call sign known only to the two of them, and the reply was given correctly.

"We need to meet. No overt danger, but keep watch...and don't bring any electronics." He gave a time and location, then hung up.

This was not gonna be fun.

* * *

"Okay, guys. Latest outta San Lorenzo is that the explosion was an attempt on President Vittori's life, but he is unharmed and currently stowed 'somewhere safe.' The country is locked down and General Flores has assured everyone his temporary takeover of the government will only last until they apprehend the perpetrators. They're keeping Moreau's name out of it, and there's no sign of any kind of restlessness from the populace. Everyone seems content...happy. Like not North Korea's 'look happy or else.' I mean actual, honest-to-goodness _happy_ and certain that this will end soon. That is some country, I tell ya."

Hardison finished his report, plopped down on the couch, and cracked open a fresh orange soda. Nate stared into his black coffee and idly considered banning the use of finger quotes among his team. "Did you figure out what Mr. Shelley was up to this morning?"

"It's adorable how he thought he _totally_ fooled us. He and Eliot must have used that old spy ruse of putting an ad in the newspaper to arrange a little tête-à-tête. Shelley was careful, though. By the time I realized that he'd briefly ditched the phone we told him to keep, he was off my radar long enough to get a call to Eliot on _another_ phone, I'm sure." Hardison sighed, and downed a swig of his soda. "The phone GPS and tracking device currently show him wandering along the river...probably meeting up with some contact or other, but he's got the microphone covered. There are no other cell signals in the area I can hack remotely. Guy's good when he's _not_ underestimating us."

"Well, that at least solves our problem of getting a message to Eliot about the North Korean involvement, but now what? Do you even know for sure that Shelley is going to 'turn' the way you expect and _help_ us, Nate?" Sophie stirred cream into her own coffee. She had forsaken tea this morning, and looked as rumpled and tired as the rest of them.

Sophie had a point: If Mr. Shelley possessed even half the ethics that Eliot did, he wouldn't give up on his promise to protect the team. However, Nate was banking that, in his quest to find them, he would most definitely be paying attention to the bigger picture, and Shelley's response to the incident at McRory's served to convince Nate that his hunch had been correct. If he stumbled across anything that Eliot _should_ know, or a way to help Eliot as well as keep his promise to look after the team, he wouldn't pass up the opportunity. And if he was meeting with a contact now, Nate had to believe that the results could only help them in the long run.

All of this had been discussed and more or less agreed upon the previous night. But Nate could see how inaction was still weighing heavily upon his team. They were used to thorough planning, but planning that was followed by _doing,_ not waiting. His team didn't wait well. Waiting left too much time to think and question and rethink. Overthinking led to confusion and inaction, or bad actions.

Unable to sleep, Nate had come down to the kitchen around four thirty this morning to find Hardison snoring softly, somehow balanced half on a kitchen chair and half on the table. He didn't wake as Nate sat in the dark of the living room searching news stories on his own computer and trying _not_ to think. He always liked to keep informed and up to date on world events and in his insurance days, he had sometimes picked up on patterns of theft among seemingly unrelated stories that the authorities had missed. He wasn't looking for any patterns that morning though, just distraction.

Eventually he resigned himself to the fact that someone was going to have to feed this team breakfast, and there was no way he was going to trust Hardison, Parker, or even Sophie to not inadvertantly poison them all. Or burn down their safe house. So, feeling just a bit rusty, Nate started assembling what he needed for a simple breakfast. Once upon a time, he had been a fairly competent cook, hence his decision to spend his prison time in the kitchen. But today he stumbled through the motions and tried his damnedest not to think about Saturday mornings and Sam watching cartoons while Maggie waited for breakfast in bed.

By the time Nate had bacon frying, Hardison was wiping drool from his cheek and blinking blearily at his computers. By the time the coffee maker had finished its cycle, Sophie was rooting through kitchen drawers for something like proper place settings, and by the time Nate began scooping scrambled eggs onto four plates, Parker had slipped in through the patio door, clothes damp from the morning dew.

It was yesterday's outfit, which said a lot about Parker's state of mind. If she had slept at all, highly unlikely, it had not been inside, and Nate could see Sophie wanted to call her on it. But they were all used to Parker's idiosyncratic coping mechanisms, and so she restrained herself. Parker had stopped and stared for a surprised second at Nate's offering, then glanced quickly around the kitchen.

Nate saw the very moment when Parker's face fell at the realization that it wasn't _Eliot_ who had prepared the spread and that he _wasn't_ at this very moment lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting for Parker to launch herself at him. In that moment, when she turned away from the kitchen and toward the hallway, Nate thought she might forgo breakfast altogether, but she returned showered and dressed and downed the eggs and bacon dutifully, but stared at her plate the entire time, and didn't engage with anyone.

During Hardison's recap, she had balanced a bowl of dry cereal on her lap while perching on the edge of a counter, crunching and watching him silently. Now, she had turned her attention to Sophie and after her silence all morning, Parker's question came like an electric shock. _"_ You know all that stuff about emotions and motivations and psychology. Why doesn't Eliot want _our_ help?" It might have been phrased in Parker's usual off-centered way, but the concern behind the question was deadly serious.

"Parker..." Sophie paused, seeming to consider how to phrase her answer. "Parker, you know I'm not _actually_ a psychologist or psychiatrist or behavioral profiler, right?" She sighed. "Eliot's protective streak has always seemed a little...unhealthy, hasn't it?"

"Like, how can he protect us if he gets killed _trying_ to protect us?" Leave it to Parker to state things bluntly. She plunked her empty bowl down and slid off the counter, headed once again for the patio door.

* * *

On the walking path by the river, Shelley fell into step next to Colonel Vance. It wasn't ideal to be seen together, not with Eliot's team in the wind yet still managing to track _him_. But the dreary chill overcast and the promise of more nasty weather today would keep most people away from the park. He was certain there were no cameras here, so unless one of Eliot's team was presently tracking them with a cloak of invisibility, or swinging through trees (Shelley resisted glancing upward for all of two seconds), he was fairly confident the team wouldn't know he was meeting with anyone.

"North Koreans, Colonel. What are they doing stateside?"

"I wasn't aware they were. There's been no chatter. Where did you stumble on North Koreans?"

Well, that was going to be a story, wasn't it? Shelley wasn't ready to share too many details just yet. Not when Eliot didn't want the Colonel involved in the first place, and not when the Colonel was already in some hot water regarding his...unique...methods. If he no longer had the authority or ability to work as he had in the past, if his rift with Eliot ran deeper than Shelley feared, or if he simply wanted to preserve his own ass, Vance would need plausible deniability for now. Any of those excuses Shelley would have accepted and respected. But he prayed it wouldn't come to that.

And since he _really_ couldn't sic Vance on some escaped arms dealer who may or may not even be _in_ the States right now, bringing up Moreau was completely out of the question. However, he _could_ alert the Colonel to a potential threat to US security with regard to the North Koreans.

"I'm gonna have to ask for some leeway here, Colonel. I've been helping Eliot with a...project." He watched Vance closely for any reaction to the name, but the big man's taciturn face was unreadable and he didn't miss a step. "We had a little run in with a North Korean crime boss. No name, but he was short in stature, quite old, and shrewd. Very shrewd. And he didn't say what it was he was after, but he wants us to stay out of his way. Eliot let slip it was a statue of some kind, and that the man might be working toward his own ends, not under authority of his country...he also implied the whole of Boston might be in danger."

At that, the unflappable Colonel halted so quickly, Shelley walked two paces past him before he realized it. He turned and was graced with an incredulous stare, complete with raised eyebrow.

"That is a hell of a vague threat! Why isn't Spencer here himself?"

"We pulled off ops with less, Colonel. Look, I made Eliot a promise. He _really_ doesn't want you involved, but we're gonna need some extra help here." Vance met Shelley's steady look for a long moment, then turned to stare out over the river. He stood ramrod straight and still with clenched jaw, but after a moment he took a deep breath, let it out slowly and relaxed his posture. He remained staring at the water.

"Did Eliot ever tell you the nature of our falling out?"

"No. And he was discharged before I returned to duty. I've only seen him a handful of times in the last few years." Shelley waited, unwilling to pry into private matters, but hoping fervently for any information to help him better understand his friend.

"He thinks I let him down. Outright betrayed him even. Maybe he's right."

Another long moment passed, while both men watched the lazy flow of the river, gray in the overcast light, and seemingly in no hurry to arrive at any particular destination. But as Shelley waited, seemingly for hours though that was only a trick of his anxious mind, some deep part of himself became convinced the river before him was not the Charles, back in Boston, but that they had somehow been transported to the gates of Hades and it was instead the River Styx that flowed sluggishly past with malevolent purpose.

"I can't make any guarantees because I'm under too much scrutiny right now, but I'll offer whatever help I possibly can. Keep me informed."

* * *

The house was on an acre, part of a neighborhood of quiet homes that backed a state park. It was not difficult for Eliot to park some distance away and trek back, approaching from the dense woods behind the house.

The Leverage team had owed Atherton nothing and Eliot could not have cared less what happened to the man once his faked death had served their purpose. With all the pain Atherton had caused him, the temptation had been there to _actually_ kill the man that day. Just a fraction of a pound more pressure on his neck, and Atherton would have been dead. It would have been terribly easy, much easier than calculating the correct pressure needed to make it look convincing _without_ killing him. But Eliot didn't want to be that man anymore, and so he grasped perhaps too eagerly at Nate's alternative. Beside, _just_ killing Atherton would not have been enough to avenge his wrongdoings. Atherton also had a family and despite the nature of the man, his wife and daughters were innocent parties.

And so, once explanations had been made, and Atherton got over the shock of Moreau's betrayal, Hardison had set the family up with his own version of witness protection, supposedly much more secure and comfortable than the official WITSEC.

Eliot ghosted along the property line close under a stand of trees. They weren't far from water here and a dense mist hung low among the branches. It was around midday, but there was no sunlight, and no sound of birds. They had tucked themselves deep into the woods, and the only sound Eliot could hear was a distant, disgruntled rumble of thunder.

What Eliot couldn't figure out was why Atherton would attempt to get involved with Moreau again. He didn't think the man was stupid enough to believe that breaking Moreau out of prison would put him back in the man's good graces. The hit had been intended to tie up loose ends around the theft of the battery and sale of the Ram's Horn. Obviously, Moreau didn't want to share the proceeds.

Atherton was now believed dead and Moreau was imprisoned for life, so the family should have been able to move forward under their new identities, if he could have just left everything else in the past. But if Atherton was still motivated by greed, highly likely, would he have been stupid enough to think he could gain Moreau's favor by breaking him out? Eliot didn't think so. Atherton was an idiot about many things, but he had always favored self-preservation. So what was the connection?

Eliot approached the screened-in back porch, and slowly climbed the steps. The lightweight porch door hung partly open and the fine hairs on the back of Eliot's neck stood to attention. For a Sunday, the house seemed _too_ still. Eliot did not think Atherton had ever been a church-goer. He gently pulled the door open further. A raccoon startled from where it was raiding a dog food dish, overturning the dish in its haste to scramble past him and down the porch steps.

Atherton had always liked dogs. Why they liked _him_ was anyone's guess. From what little Eliot knew of Atherton from his Army days, he seemed to favor Pekingese of all things. The fancy little curs may have had a long and noble reputation as fierce and loyal guardians in ancient China, but Eliot had gotten the impression they were never much more than flashy ornaments to him.

Still, why weren't they raising an alarm now?

The family could have gone out somewhere, could have taken their dogs for a walk or a drive...but why leave the porch door open and a bowl full of food to be raided by wildlife?

Within the screened porch, Eliot pressed close to the back wall of the house alongside the door, and reached for the knob. His hand stilled when he spotted tiny, fresh scrapes around the keyhole: the work of lock picks wielded by someone who did _not_ have Parker's skill.

* * *

Hardison found Parker in the late afternoon. He'd wanted to give her as much space as she needed since there still wasn't much anyone could actually do, and Parker was the worst among them at dealing with inactivity. Even Hardison, with his disdain of outdoorsy stuff, began to grow claustrophobic in their safe house. He found he actually _wanted_ to go out and get some fresh air like Eliot was always prodding him to do.

Too bad that fresh air also included the return of thunderstorms and rain. There was a reason people had invented the indoors and this was why! Thunder rumbled too closely and the mist was too wet and Hardison was sure he was catching pneumonia right this minute, but then he spotted a scattering of benches overlooking a little brook flowing through a park not far from their safe house. Parker was seated on one of the benches like a perfectly normal person, if perfectly normal people sit on park benches getting soaked just to watch a tiny ribbon of _more_ water flow by them. Hardison shrugged deeper into his coat. He was mostly just glad she hadn't climbed a tree in the middle of a damned blinding thunderstorm. He took a seat on the bench as well, at a distance somewhere between "strangers sharing a bench by necessity" and "friends watching ducks in a creek." But even the ducks had had enough of rain, it seemed.

Parker spoke after a moment, though she continued to stare at the water. "I didn't like it when Sophie left."

He remembered Parker's inability to sit still with that empty spot on the couch, and how she had always seemed to be glancing around as if looking for Sophie, and how she had given Sophie one of her rare hugs on the deck of the _Maltese Falcon_. Hell, she hadn't even dealt well with Sophie's faked funeral and Sophie had been right there with them in the cemetery very much alive!

He sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"I didnt like it when Nate was in jail, either." He tried to think back to any specific strange things Parker had done while Nate was gone and couldn't really pinpoint anything. She had been mostly normal...Oh, right. She had been _normal_ normal. Not _Parker_ normal.

"I know." And then, because Parker didn't continue speaking after a bit, "You know _I'm_ not gonna leave, right? Pretzels, remember?"

He moved a little closer to her on the bench, trying to remind her he was right there if she needed him. Since that job up on the mountain, the one right after San Lorenzo, Parker had been a tiny bit more demonstrative with him. Just a little. Sometimes, she even hugged him for no reason at _all_ that he could discern. Sometimes.

"I don't like feeling like this...makes me feel all...stabby again." Her hands moved like she was trying to unlock a safe where the words she wanted to use were tucked away. She shifted away from him, the exact distance he had moved toward her. Okay, he could live with that. If he could just figure out how to get her in out of the rain.

"What's wrong with me?"

The longing her voice tugged at his heart. "This is what it's like havin' a family, Parker. It's not always easy, you know that. An' feelin' what you feel now? It's not wrong. It's better than not feelin' anything at all."

"Is it?"

Hardison thought long about all the siblings he had gained and lost when he was in foster care, and began to wonder if it actually was.

"I feel like running away. I was used to running away, before...before all of you. Eliot never runs away."

Hardison thought running away was a very solid plan when one was running from dangerous situations, and that Eliot was just a little too crazy in that regard, but he knew that was not at all what Parker meant.

"Why is he running from _us?"_

The discordant jangle of Hardison's phone saved him from having to answer. It was Sophie.

"Do you have Parker? Come back to the house. Something's come up."

* * *

Eliot carried a rather nasty set of faded scars on his right calf muscle. The reminder of a mistake he had made in the early days of his private military contractor work, before that work drew him to Moreau's attention. It was a mistake he made only once.

Though his years in the Army had trained him to note everything, he had perhaps grown a bit lax in his time working the more "legitimate" jobs his first PMC had picked up. He was beginning to make a name for himself though, and his employer had begun to slip him some solo under-the-table work filtered through the legitimate front of the company. If someone had the desire and money to send a message, Eliot had the skills.

A small european town, an older middle-aged couple, childless. A lamb roast fresh out of the oven, and an organized-crime boss looking to make a statement that could in no way be traced back to him.

Eliot had been silent when picking the lock on the back door, had made no more sound than a mouse might when crossing the kitchen floor. But his attention had been too focused on his targets visible through the dining room doorway and he failed to note the water dish tucked in the corner on the floor, never heard the wraith-silent and gorgeous big black Malinois until it was too late.

That job had ended messy, but Eliot delivered the desired result, and that was all his employer had cared about.

Sophie liked lamb. There were some times when Eliot could not bring himself to roast it when she requested, but she never asked him why.

There was no smell of freshly roasted lamb in Atherton's house, but it was obvious the family _had_ been sitting down to a meal when they were attacked.

Eliot silently made his way through the too-quiet house as far as the dining room. He had seen nothing in disarray until he reached the arched opening through which he could see chairs pushed back from the table and toppled, spilled glasses of milk and orange juice, and a spot of blood on the carpet.

Only the one spot of blood, not the crime scene Eliot had envisioned the moment he first noticed something amiss. No bodies, not even that of a dog.

Painfully aware that he had not yet cleared the rest of the house, Eliot carefully approached the table. The congealed spilled drinks and rank, solidified bacon grease indicated that whatever had occurred, had not occurred this morning. Yesterday then? Not long after Eliot had himself learned of Moreau's escape? Or perhaps before?

If this attack had been ordered by Moreau, why not leave the type of message he had left at Ribera's estate? What use would Atherton, once marked for death, his wife and two daughters be to Moreau if kept alive now? Unless...well, _that_ thought did not bear consideration, and would still not explain why Atherton was _not_ lying here dead.

The spot of blood. Had one of the family fought back and been injured? Had they injured one of the abductors? Because if the family was _not_ here dead, there must have been more than one abductor to keep them all in line. Someone _wanted_ them alive. For what purpose, Eliot had no clue. And considering there was still no other sign of Moreau's presence in the United States, how did this fit?

There came a sudden noise from the hallway, the creak of a door being opened and shut, followed by footsteps not attempting to be stealthy. Eliot turned away from the dining room table and returned to the relative safety of the arched doorway where he gingerly peeked around the edge.

A man stood at the bottom of the stairway to the second floor, looking upward with his back to Eliot. He was dressed in street clothes and had the look of a hardened life, but not the bearing of a professional.

"Joey! Get yer sorry ass down here. It's time to go!"

 _Definitely_ not a professional.

Without waiting for a reply, the man turned and Eliot ducked back, then stepped out and grabbed the man as he passed the entrance to the dining room, swinging him around and faceplanting him up against the hallway wall, hard. His intent had been to knock the man out long enough to deal with "Joey," then secure the two of them and acquire some answers.

 _Perhaps you no longer have the stomach..._

Eliot was pretty sure he _did_ have the stomach for that.

His plan went all to hell though, when the thud of the man's body set off a chorus of yapping from within the coat closet to their left. That at least explained the missing dogs, but in his momentary loss of concentration, the man slipped out of Eliot's grasp, twisted, and clumsily attempted to elbow him in the face. The man was no trained fighter, but he did seem to be a scrapper, probably survived many a street brawl. He was also big and _heavy,_ and Eliot was burdened with his prior injuries, leaving him stiff and slower than he liked.

The man obviously knew how to use his weight and shoved off the wall, forcing Eliot backward, and Eliot found himself off balance and coming down hard on the leg that the Russian punk had twisted two days prior. He dropped to his knees, but managed to remain upright as the man drew a blade and stepped forward. Eliot forced himself to his feet again, and tried to find a balanced stance.

The man came in low, intending to gut him, apparently. He was definitely a street brawler who relied mostly on luck and intimidation rather than any actual skill because he telegraphed his every move. Even so, the blade was wicked and dangerous, and Eliot was moving too stiffly by his own standards.

He blocked the first thrust but he was in a bad position and fading alarmingly fast and he wasn't sure he had it in him to fight the man's superior weight any longer now that he had lost the element of surprise. And indeed, the man pressed his weight forward and again shoved Eliot off balance to avoid being disarmed. The man was quicker than he looked and almost got a good thrust in despite his terrible form. Eliot caught and twisted his hand and wrist upward but he wouldn't drop the blade.

This close, Eliot could detect the smell of roast beef and spicy mustard on the man's breath, could see the rye crumbs on his shirt. For a brief moment longer Eliot held his ground, but the man leaned inexorably forward until he felt his boot slip on the hallway rug just the tiniest bit. He needed to end this quickly, and for the first time in a long time, Eliot wished he had brought his trusty old Glock with him. But it was stowed in his car, to be used one last time only, and that time wasn't yet. Instead, he put every ounce of his will into twisting the man's knife hand back until the point pierced his own throat, and shoved it home. The big man dropped solidly to the floor at the foot of the stairs.

It was maybe a little over the top, but so ridiculously easy after all this time, that Eliot nearly laughed. He most certainly was _not_ disgusted with himself, and the tremors in his hands were most certainly _only_ from fatigue. But before Eliot could begin to recover himself, he became aware of another presence behind him. He spun quickly, swaying dangerously for the briefest moment before regaining his balance.

Another street punk who couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, awkward and gangly, stood frozen on the short landing above him, where the stairway turned a ninety degree angle to the left. His eyes were wide as saucers and he clutched a weighted pillowcase to his chest as if it were a talisman against evil.

Eliot lurched up the short flight of stairs toward him, but the kid seemed too terrified to move. He grabbed a fistful of his shirt and slammed him up against the wall. The pillowcase dropped to the floor with the clink and jangle of a jewelry collection.

"Wanna avoid ending up like your buddy down there, you're gonna answer my questions, got it?" He was met with wide, scared eyes.

"Where are the people who live here?"

The kid was shaking hard and nearly hyperventilating, and Eliot was pretty sure he may have wet himself. He had no sympathy. _"Hey!"_ He shook the kid. _"_ Wanna end up like him?" Eliot forced his head sideways so he had no choice but to stare straight at the body crumpled below them. The kid whimpered.

 _"Where are the people who live here?!"_

"I...I d...don't know. I swear! T-the house was like this when we got here!" His voice wavered.

"You want me to believe you just happened to pick _this_ house to rob right after an abduction?"

"No! B-Benny...he's my cousin, said someone hired him to leave a message and he wanted me to be the lookout! I needed the money my girlfriend's pregnant I just wanted to do the right thing and help her out!" The kid sagged against the wall as if those last rushed words were the only thing that had been holding him up besides Eliot's hands fisted in his shirt.

Eliot was inclined to believe the kid's story, mostly because his terror was too damned real. He was not physically _able_ to lie at the moment.

"Benny say _who_ hired him?" The kid shook his head, not looking away from his cousin's lifeless form. He was outright crying now, apparently resigned to sharing the man's fate.

"You don't ask Benny questions, you just do what he says."

"You're a terrible lookout. You'd been doing your job instead of robbing the place, you mighta seen me coming."

Something niggled the back of Eliot's mind. _Someone hired him to leave a message._ Eliot jerked the kid forward again, forced him to look him in the eye. _"What was Benny doing before he called for you?"_

"I d-don't know! He...he was in the basement." These older houses, a lot of vital systems were controlled from the basement. Eliot pulled the kid close again.

"You wanna look after your family? Do the _right_ thing? Get out of here _now!_ Get out of this _life!"_ And he shoved him away.

The kid hit the wall again, stepped sideways off the landing, missing the first step. He tumbled down the five short steps, and landed on his cousin, eye to sightless staring eye. Then he scrambled up and ran, as if all the hounds of Hell were on his heels.

Eliot was right behind him and used the stairway railing to vault himself over the body, but instead of heading down the hallway to the unlocked back door as the kid had done, Eliot instead made for the coat closet. He yanked the door open. No fewer than four furry bullets shot out the door to mill about his legs, nearly tripping him in the process. Eliot bolted for the back door, trusting the dogs would be smart enough to figure it out, even as he cursed himself for the delay.

A sound crashed louder than thunder and a light flashed brighter than lightning and Eliot had time only to pray that Shelley would be able to find his team and protect them. Because he knew he wouldn't be able to any longer.

-TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: We are approaching the end of the first _segment_ of this story. I don't have a final chapter count, but the story is roughly broken into three "acts," if you will. I don't know why you all need to know this - we're nowhere near the actual end.**

 **Warnings for minor language and much angst.**

* * *

Chapter 8

The atmosphere was tense in the safehouse when Hardison and Parker returned. They paused in the entryway long enough to toss their drenched coats over hooks by the door before joining Nate and Sophie in the dining room. Sophie met them halfway, motioning for quiet.

Past her, Hardison could see Nate standing at the dining table, bent slightly at the waist and staring down at his phone, hands flat and arms braced on either side, with shoulders hunched. He was reminded of a bull, tense and ready to charge. But instead of anger, Hardison saw only intense concentration in his features.

He could hear a slighty tinny voice, possibly female, coming from the phone, but they weren't close enough for him to catch complete words.

"It's Eliot's nurse Gail. She works the ER at Mass Gen and says Eliot was brought in just a little while ago, unconscious and injured." Sophie's near whisper broke through his contemplation and he brushed gently past her to his array of computer equipment on the table opposite Nate. Why hadn't his programmed watch on hospitals and...other places...alerted him that someone matching Eliot's description had been brought in? 'Course, the storm was wreaking havok with power all over town so maybe the part of the hospital servers he had hacked weren't being updated in real time?

As he settled in to investigate, Hardison set half of his attention on Nate's conversation. Sophie moved to stand where she could see his screens, but Parker remained in the doorway.

Other than the tenseness of his stance, nothing about Nate's voice or Gail's indicated that Eliot was in any immediate danger of dying, thank the good Lord. But what had that damned fool gotten into?

"I was working with another emergency when he was brought in: he's not my patient but I recognized that hair...They called him a John Doe and I didn't tell anyone I know him because he came in with a police escort. They seemed very interested in him...

"Look, Mr. Ford is it? I've probably violated any number of laws and HIPAA regulations just by contacting you. I will not risk my job or my license by doing anything else, but I just thought you should know where he is because...Well, I know the story Eliot gave me about being a traveling businessman is a load of baloney, and I don't _want_ to know what kind of things you or he may be involved in but...when your friends came by looking for him, it was obvious that they care very much. Eliot doesn't strike me as a bad person, and I'm a good judge of people."

"Ms Gail, you've done more than we could ever ask, and we'll take it from here. _Thank you._ I only ask that you continue to let everyone think he's a John Doe."

"Of course. Tell Eliot when he's feeling better to call me, will you? He still owes me a long sunset walk along the river."

Nate managed a smirk at that, while Sophie and Parker rolled their eyes. Hardison was pretty sure his attempt to match Nate's smirk might have ended up more of a grimace. He still hadn't found anything pertaining to Eliot in the hospital server. _Damn_ the storm and sensitive equipment!

Nate seemed to deflate as he ended the call. He dropped bonelessly into the nearest chair and ran a hand over his face, taking a long moment to compose himself. Hardison very carefully did not allow his thoughts to wander into the realm of Nate's experiences with hospitals. After a few steadying breaths, Nate addressed Hardison.

"She said she overheard the officers who came in with him talking about an explosion."

Hardison set the hospital hack to run in the background, and tried his hand at the local police precinct servers instead. And damn it all to h-... _sorry,_ Nana! But he just couldn't get anywhere: no access to hospital servers, law enforcement servers, no media outlets playing up a juicy story...what, was the storm some kind of magical time travel thingy that had sent them back to the _Dark Ages?!_ They finally had something to go on, and they knew where Eliot was, but he couldn't find out how badly he was injured, or if this meant everything was over or was it just starting or...! He didn't even realize the entire team had gone silent and were watching him, or that he was giving them a verbal run down of his thoughts, until Sophie covered his hands with her own.

"Stop, Hardison."

He stopped, looking up at her standing at his side. His fingertips started tingling - he hadn't even noticed they'd gone numb.

"Before you end up damaging your computer or yourself, stop and take a breath."

Hardison took a breath. And another.

He met Sophie's eyes, then Nate's, then glaced at Parker, still standing tense and coiled tight as a spring, ready for action but having no direction.

He took another deep breath. "The storm's apparently messing with the hospital and police servers...I got nothin' on Eliot's condition or what happened to him." Damn, he felt useless.

"Gail gave me a brief rundown on Eliot's injuries from what she could gather without raising suspicion from the people who _did_ work on him, or the cops who came in with him. He has a lot of cuts, mostly from wood shrapnel in his back. Only a few were deep enough to require stitches, and nothing vital was hit. He has a lot of bruising, both new and a few days old, as we're already aware. Also a fractured clavicle and ribs, and a likely concussion. On top of the concussion he sustained at the carnival. Even with all of that, he's stable and not in any serious condition."

Sophie breathed a sigh of relief. "You know that stubborn hard-headed ass will try to run again as soon as he wakes up. Should we go over there?"

Hardison started pulling cords on his equipment, closing laptops, and searching under the dining table for his equipment bags. "Okay...yeah. We'll go over there. Set up in a waiting room or somethin', maybe steal a hospital again? Maybe I can get more information if I'm _in_ the hospital..."

"No." All eyes turned back to Nate. "We still don't know what danger might be out there, if someone may even be watching the hospital. We're still working with a distinct _lack_ of information, and if we show ourselves there it might be dangerous to us _and_ to Eliot...especially if he wakes up and sees us there..."

"Well then, send Shelley to him for protection?" Hardison hovered between sliding a laptop into a case, and pulling it back out.

"He won't abandon the job Eliot asked him to do, so if _we're_ not there, he won't go there. No. No...okay. I know how to get Eliot some protection, and maybe find out some more information." Nate held up a finger for silence, and keyed in a phone number. At least that's one thing the storm hadn't taken from them yet.

He put the phone on "speaker" when his call was answered by a curt "This better be good Ford. I'm a little busy here."

"Yeah...yeah, listen Pat, there might have been an explosion in your jurisdiction a little while ago..."

"I caught the case. What's your involvement?"

"Don't you mean 'interest?' You always have such a suspicious mind, Pat...There was a John Doe taken to Mass Gen...it's Eliot and I need a favor..."

"...What do you expect me to do, Ford? He was found at the scene of a house explosion, didn't appear to be the resident, and I _just_ received word there was a body recovered from the house with a knife through its throat. There may also be some missing people. I'm not gonna jeopardize my career to let your man just walk out of there without answering some questions first."

"I wouldn't ask you to, Pat. In fact, I'm asking you to have him arrested and kept there." Sophie gasped, Parker clenched her hands, and Hardison opened his mouth to call Nate something that would turn his Nana's ears (and his rear) red if she ever heard it coming from him, but then his computer pinged for his attention. Unwilling to let Nate get away without at least a death glare, Hardison glanced down to read the address flashing on his screen. And then he read it again.

Bonnano's voice took on a decidedly dangerous edge. "I don't know what game you're playing and I know you won't tell me the full truth if I asked. As soon as he wakes up, I'll be over there interviewing him _personally_. And that's NOT as a favor to you: I'll be treating him as a suspect. I won't do anything to jeapordize my reputation or this case."

"I wouldn't ask you to. All we need is some time to get a few answers and I'm sure we can sort this out."

"You say that a lot, Ford. Just know this: if you're yanking my chain, if I see any of you at the hospital trying to interfere, I'll personally arrest every single one of you."

"I'd expect nothing less. Just...can you keep him as a John Doe for now?"

"You have a very short rope here, Ford. Don't hang yourself with it." And Bonnano ended the call.

Hardison barely heard the end of the conversation. At the mention of "suspect," he snapped out of his shock at reading the address and started doing what he could to match Eliot's fingerprints and description to his most innocuous false identification. Bonnano would definitely have him printed if the officers who escorted him in hadn't done so already. Hopefully, the storm would be as much a hindrance to their searches as it was to his.

When Bonnano ended the call, Parker and Sophie turned on Nate.

"So we're just abandoning him?"

"And when Eliot wakes up and decides he doesn't _want_ to be under arrest? What then, Nate?"

Nate had rested his forehead in his hand, elbow braced on the tabletop, and Hardison knew he was thinking the same things. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and his features were drawn into a slight grimace. There was a better than great chance Nate hadn't had a drink since the night before Eliot disappeared, and it must be killing him now.

"I don't _know_. I need time to think. We're still missing something, and we _need_ to keep Eliot in one place...keep him from acting rashly..."

"Like we aren't?!"

 _"...and running off again!"_

Hardison raised his voice to be heard over the melee. "Guys? _Guys!_ I got an address where the explosion occured. It...it's the house where we set up Atherton and his family with new IDs...Nate, the body? Did Eliot kill Atherton for real this time?"

Nate raised his head, met Hardison's gaze, then glanced around the suddenly silent room.

"We can't worry about that right now. Parker, YOU go to the hospital. Keep an eye on Eliot and what's going on there, but don't be seen. _Especially_ not by Eliot. The rest of us will stay here and try to work on the Atherton connection. Stay in touch." Parker was gone in an instant.

Nate sat staring at his dark phone, tapping his finger on the tabletop next to it. Sophie reached over and lightly touched his arm. "Nate?"

Nate roused himself from whatever rabbit hole he had been lost down. "Earlier today, before Ms. Gail called us, Shelley sent a message. He wants to talk in person. I think I'll grant him a phone call."

* * *

The phone that was the current bane of Shelley's existence rang from the passenger seat where it rested at a haughty angle, silently judging his inability to find a simple band of amateur Robin Hoods. He whipped his car across two lanes of traffic to pull off on the shoulder and reached for it. Normally, he'd simply answer the call while driving no matter the legality of that, but there was something about dealing with Eliot's team that was not conducive to safe driving.

"Did you finally wise up, Ford? Decide to meet with me?" Pleasantries be damned.

"That will have to wait a little longer. Do you know a general named Elias Atherton?"

"...Not personally...but I know _of_ him. Wasn't he killed a few months ago?"

"We...uh...not exactly. Hardison will send you some information about our prior run in with him and its relation to Moreau. I want to know why his house exploded today with Eliot in it."

Shelley's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "The _hell, Ford!?"_

"Look, Eliot is at Mass General. We hear he's stable and we've made sure he's as safe as can be for now. I want you to go to Atherton's address and see if you can figure out what Eliot was doing there and how Atherton might be involved with everything. I realize you won't go back on your word to Eliot, but the best way to protect us right now is help us investigate so _we_ don't have to go over there ourselves."

A thousand arguments came to Shelley's mind but damnit, Ford's request made sense. _Damn_ him.

"I made a _promise_ toEliot, Ford. Don't turn me into a liar."

"I promise we'll be careful and stay put."

"The same promise you've given Eliot before, I'm sure." Shelley ended the call and once again tossed the phone into the passenger seat. He was about ready to shoot the damn thing.

* * *

 _He's dropping bodies again_.

He couldn't help the thought.

 _"The rest of the team, they don't need to know what I did..."_

Nate rested his head in his hands again, fingers tugging at his unruly hair. _How many more before this is done, Eliot? How many more bodies?_

In any life or death situation, Nate wouldn't question Eliot's expertise. Hadn't questioned it back at the warehouse. Eliot would do what had to be done. Nate didn't even know the full extent of what had transpired, but he could guess: The wild look in Eliot's eyes, revealing the briefly unleashed beast. The smell of gunpowder and fire on him and...self-loathing. Nate was all too familiar with self-loathing.

But though he would never, even in the deepest pits of his alcohol-fueled anger, _ever_ reveal Eliot's secrets to anyone, Nate knew the team was aware of much more than Eliot believed they were.

Hardison definitely was.

Because whatever had actually happened in the warehouse, Hardison had spent long hours, without prompt from Nate or anyone else, doing what he could to bury the bodies and fire, turn attention away from their connection to Moreau. Bonnano had the information they passed off to him, making Moreau a fugitive who would no longer find safety in the United States, but his involvement had to end at the nation's border. Fresh bodies left behind that could be attributed to Moreau would get too many agencies involved, and they _had_ to keep Eliot out of it, give the authorities something nice and tidy, like a domestic gang war, to focus on instead.

And to accomplish that, Nate knew Hardison had hacked into and learned _everything_ about the investigation, sanitizing it as much as he could from behind his computer screens. Nate had seen him working late, much later and more often than usual, in the weeks after the warehouse and San Lorenzo, had sometimes sat as silent company when Hardison had been unraveling and re-tying some pretty complicated knots. So yeah, he definitely knew what Eliot had done.

Nate wondered what the kid would need to sanitize once _this_ was all over.

* * *

The hacker's information regarding Moreau, Atherton, and the sale of a bomb known as the "Ram's Horn" had not given Shelley much immediately useful information. Still, he mulled it over in his mind as he approached the scene. Ford believed the North Koreans had been the original buyers, which matched what the old man had told Shelley at the pub. Still, though North Korean agents were probably not above exploding houses to get their message across, the crime boss at McRory's had seemed honest and straightforward when he told Shelley he did _not_ want to attract attention. Which lent credence to Eliot's assertion that he wasn't working _for_ North Korea.

So, the man was looking for some kind of statue for his _own_ purposes.

That clarified _everything._

Shelley had the proper falsified identification to get himself into the crime scene but it was just as he had expected: nothing more than a flattened and soggy pile of charred rubble. As to the _how,_ Ford's hacker would have an easier time digging into details of the investigation on his end of things.

As to the _why,_ Eliot was the only one who could possibly shed some light at the moment. And if he was in relatively good shape, he wouldn't be staying at the hospital for long. Even if he wasn't okay, he'd still manage to drag his sorry ass out of there as quickly as he could to go die in some bushes or something, such was the depth of his dislike for hospitals.

After a cursory but ultimately unenlightening walkthrough of the scene, Shelley embarked upon a hunt. He asked himself how Eliot might have approached the house since he obviously didn't park at the curb and knock on the front door like the world's grumpiest salesman. A short trek through the woods behind the property, and down a couple of rain-washed side streets led Shelley to what must have been Eliot's vehicle, a search of which revealed nothing that could be tied to Eliot except his old Glock 19. Back in the day, that had been Eliot's weapon of choice. Versatile, reliable. Accurate. Eliot hadn't carried it or any gun in Pakistan but _that_ job had been so hinky, most of what they'd done had involved close up work and hell of a lot of stealth. But if he'd come here _intending_ to kill Atherton, why leave it in the car?

Shelley tucked the Glock under his jacket and, as the last light faded, began to wipe down any surfaces he or Eliot could possibly have touched in the car before walking away from it. When the vehicle was eventually reported abandoned, it likely wouldn't be tied to Eliot or the explosion.

So what next? He had nothing worthwhile to report to Ford. Maybe he should just sic Vance on the team...but he'd have to label them terrorists and he wasn't prepared to do that. Yet. Shelley sighed, and shook his head. Couldn't waste time fantasizing like that.

* * *

 _"You're down one man, with Shelley out injured..." Vance leaned back in his chair and watched Eliot pace in front of his desk._

 _"Then we go without him. I'd rather go a man short than with someone unproven. I've always worked with people of my choosin', that I can_ trust."

 _"It's come down from above my head, Spencer..."_

 _Eliot stopped suddenly, leaned forward over Vance's desk. "You've never had trouble standin' up for yourself, or this team either. What is it about Atherton that's got you so cowed?"_

"General _Atherton, and you're bordering on insubordination, Spencer. I've never seen you be disrespectful."_

 _"He may be a general in name, but he's done_ nothin' _to earn it. Desk work suits_ him _better'n it does you, Colonel. I'd rather we do this one man short."_ _Eliot punctuated his words by tapping and grinding his forefinger into the desktop. "_ I. Don't. Trust. Thompson."

 _"And yet, you haven't given me a reason why other than he's Atherton's pick. And you haven't brought me any solid evidence to back your suspicions of Atherton either. There is nothing we can do about him if we have no proof. And why would he risk his career to collude with the enemy?"_

 _"Greed. What happened to all those relics we uncovered last year?" Eliot resumed his pacing._

 _"The locals..."_

 _"The locals had nothin' to do with them disappearin'! You can't see what's right under your own nose!" Eliot stopped again, arms crossed but itching to punch something._

 _"Watch yourself. One more word, Spencer, and someone else is leading your team on this mission. You've been given a lot of leeway due to the nature of your work, but I won't tolerate outright disobedience. Now, this mission: I don't have to tell you_ _this is top, top secret. No oversight, no back up. You get yourselves in, you get yourselves out. And that includes Thompson, got it?"_

 _"Fine. But mark my words, Colonel: this op is hinky from the start. Atherton is in bed with the North Koreans, and he wants us to take_ his _man into one of North Korea's biggest allies. It's a setup, and if things go sideways, it's not on_ my _people."_

* * *

Even in sleep, Eliot didn't look restful. His face was tense, with a frown and that puckered look between his eyebrows he got when he was angry. Parker knew he'd _definitely_ be angry when he woke and discovered himself handcuffed to a hospital bed.

He had already been cuffed when Parker arrived, though not through the door where Bonnano had posted two uniformed officers. Instead, she rested in the air vent overlooking Eliot's room. It was in an older part of the hospital, and the vents were decently roomy. She didn't mind spending the night here if needed, watching over Eliot.

It didn't seem right to her though, seeing Eliot chained like a dog that had wandered away once too often. They didn't need the pet dog part of Eliot right now, because _Eliot_ needed to be the protective wolf, and you shouldn't chain a wolf. Eliot was special to them because he was was free, and he _chose_ to stay. Or he had, before this started.

She rested her head on her crossed forearms and watched the steady rise and fall of Eliot's breathing. As soon as he woke up, he was going to try running away again. Running from them. Parker knew he didn't _want_ to be alone, not really. He just didn't know how to _not_ be that way, and he was trying to protect them in the only way he did know how. And that meant he also had to protect them from himself, from learning too much about his dark times. But she didn't have to _ask him_ to know where that protectiveness was coming from: she already understood him. The two of them were different from the others.

And she didn't think that Eliot's actions were so _wrong_ after all, because she thought _she_ might do the same thing, in his shoes. Maybe she could _help_ him get the job done, and then she could make _sure_ he kept his promise and returned to them. Parker made up her mind. She was gonna steal Eliot.

* * *

 _There were three place settings._

Eliot came awake slowly, his thoughts muddled, and body heavy.

Great. He musta been drugged. Still, at least it meant he didn't wake up swinging because if he had, the other person in the room with him would know he was awake, and he didn't want that yet. Not until he figured out _where_ he was.

He couldn't really explain how he learned to come awake slowly, without giving himself away. It was pretty much born of necessity, but it had served him well many times. Captors, torturers, would think he was out of it and sometimes inadvertently reveal important information, or let their guard down while untying him to move.

Funny though, how he tended to wake up swinging more often than not now that he'd been _pretending_ to be a good guy. Nightmares were a bitch, and so was his conscience. The unknown person leaned over him and adjusted something, and it was all Eliot could do to remain still. He didn't like feeling vulnerable.

Especially when he was numb and...floaty. That's probably how Parker would have described it. So he focused on the feeling. It reminded him of...pain meds. Right, he already figured he'd been drugged but why...Something had exploded...he'd been in a lot of explosions so where...? His mind didn't want to focus against the pull of the drugs. That would have to stop soon...over time, he'd gotten pretty good at fighting against their downward pull, but if someone realized he was awake and upped them, he'd be back to unconscious and vulnerable. And unable to complete his mission.

Unacceptable.

What mission? If there had been an explosion, maybe he was in a hospital? And with that thought, sound and smell began to work their way through the cloud in his brain. Beeping, antiseptic...and the movements of the unknown person in the room seemed deliberate, businesslike. Nurse like.

Nurse Gail? Why was he thinking of her? The date. The news from Flores, the fear for his team. The memories crashed back, and it was all he could do to maintain stillness and let them wash over him. Feeling returned sluggishly through the drugged numbness and he was pretty certain he was handcuffed to the bed rails. Not exactly a new experience: waking drugged and cuffed.

Damnit, his team. Likely, Hardison had a check on local hospitals for someone matching his description, so he needed to figure out how to get out of this soon.

It wasn't just that he hated hospitals, though that was a major component of it. But while he was laid up here _and how long had it been since the explosion?_ While he was laid up here, Moreau was still out there somewhere. The North Koreans were out there somewhere. And the only link Eliot had to everything at the moment was missing. While he was laid up, the Leverage team was still in great danger.

Unacceptable.

Wait. Rewind. What was that tenuous thought he had woken with? _Three_ place settings?

Atherton had a wife and _two_ daughters.

In his military days, Atherton had always put work before family. So was he not there when they were abducted? And was that intentional on the part of the abductors? Possibly.

The abductors didn't blow the house. Moreau wouldn't have hired the amateurs who _did_ blow the house.

Moreau _could_ have been behind the abduction but...

...the dogs. _No_ man of Moreau's would spare the dogs' lives. Too many variables there, and it would imply a tiny little vulnerable soft spot. _Every one of 'em...are worse than me._ And that was saying a _hell_ of a lot.

The nurse seemed to have finished her checks and Eliot barely noted her leaving.

So, at least two players were after Atherton, and _neither_ one was Moreau. The North Koreans didn't outsource to amateurs either, but they were not above kidnapping.

This was beginning to read like one of those damned logic puzzles.

If Atherton's family was being used to control him, where would he _go?_

And how could Eliot get out of here as expeditiously as possible to find him, considering he was cuffed to a bed, and his team was aware he was here? No choice, then.

He forced his gritty eyes open and peered up at the opposite wall, near the ceiling. "Come out of the vent, Parker."

There was no reply.

"C'mon Parker, I can _feel_ you watching me. Come outta there."

The vent cover opened and she slid out, landing delicately as a cat, then moved to stand at the foot of his bed. Eliot noted how tired she appeared, without her usual bouncy energy. Her clothes and hair were damp and he belatedly noticed his dark and rain-streaked window.

"You weren't supposed to know I was in there."

 _"You and the team_ are supposed to be with Shelley." Damn his dry throat.

"We don't like him. Yet." Parker moved to his side and offered him the cup of water complete with bendy straw. She didn't uncuff him, but damned if he'd let her play nurse. He glared, but that proved a mistake as his head began to throb, even against the fuzzy painkillers. Pretty damn sure he had a new concussion to add to the one from the carnival. "Where're the others?"

"Safe house. Trying to figure out what connection Atherton has to everything. Why don't you want us to help you?" Parker had put down the cup, and was leaning on the bed railing, her grip tight.

"It ain't your fight, Parker. It's too damn dangerous for you to get involved."

Her brow creased then, the familiar stubborn look solidly in place but instead of arguing, Parker pushed off from the railing and began pacing.

"Nate told Bonnano to have you arrested so you wouldn't run away again. There are two cops posted outside your door."

Eliot carefully avoided thinking about what he'd like to do to Nate right about now. Hopefully, there would be time for that later. Two men, probably among Bonnano's finest. Eliot began carefully assessing functionality of his limbs. He could probably stand and walk, assuming dizziness didn't knock him flat. Wouldn't know until he tried. Fight though? Likely not. He was pretty sure he had at least a slight fracture to his right collarbone and multiple ribs. Well, a few _new_ ribs since the carnival. There was some bandaging all over, his back felt a bit lumpy with them, but he wasn't in any sort of traction. He supposed he should celebrate small wins and all that b.s.

Parker's pacing had picked up speed, and her hands were in motion, as she tended to do when she was deep in thought and dealing with nervous energy at the same time. It was beginning to make him dizzy.

"The thing is Eliot, I don't think Nate's entirely right. About this." She waved vaguely at the handcuffs. "About having you arrested...so...so I'm going to help you escape, and then _we_ are going to do what needs to be done. Because _you_ need help, and _we_ can do the things the others can't, remember? So I'm going to help you so you can come back to us and everything will go back to the way it's supposed to be, okay?"

She stopped pacing and fixed him with a stare. "Okay?"

Eliot cleared his throat and swallowed down the sudden lump he found there. "Yeah, sweetheart. Okay. Go steal me some scrubs or somethin'..."

"I brought some of your real clothes from Lucille..." She reached up to the vent and pulled a small bag out, tossing it to land on his legs.

Eliot blinked. "...been planning this for a while, huh?"

Parker shrugged, then moved to pick the locks on his cuffs. "What's next?"

Eliot wasn't about to reveal his thoughts on Atherton's whereabouts and risk her passing the information on to the rest of the team. He waved Parker back as he maneuvered himself into a mostly upright position, carefully keeping the light sheet bunched around his waist, and swung his legs off the bed. His vision swam and his stomach roiled but didn't rebel. He sat still for a moment, just breathing deeply. Parker wisely didn't move closer to try to help, but she did watch him like a hawk.

"I'm pretty sure the window doesn't open..." Parker shook her head. "And there's no way I can get up into the vent right now. We're gonna haveta get past Bonnano's men, but I'm also gonna need a distraction. I don't know if pulling these damn tubes and sensors out'll set off any alarms or alert the nurses' station. Eliot glanced around at the monitors and tubes. He'd never felt so trapped in his life. Hospitals sucked.

Keeping his right arm held tight across his chest and immobile, Eliot pawed through the bag Parker had given him. He really didn't relish the thought of Parker going through his things, but she seemed to have brought every article of clothing he needed. _Every_ article.

Parker glanced around, chewing at her lower lip. "Give me five minutes before you unhook anything, then get dressed fast and wait by the door." She climbed onto the back of one of the visitor chairs, then hoisted herself into the vent. Eliot hoped her definition of "fast" accounted for his current state but with Parker, one never knew.

Exactly five minutes later, patient alarms started sounding down the corridor outside Eliot's room. He had guessed from the apparent lack of activity and dark sky outside his window that it must be fairly late in the evening. Visiting hours were probably over, and nursing staff would be at a minimum. He dressed as quickly as possible, which wasn't very quickly at all, considering he couldn't move his right arm much and he fought nausea all the way. It was a relief to lean up against the wall by his door as he waited for further sign from Parker.

He heard a thump outside his door, then sounds of a struggle. Eliot pulled his door open to discover one officer unconscious on the floor, and a second grappling with Parker for her taser. A swift left hook shot agony through his own body, but dropped the officer cold. Damn, he hated hitting cops who were only doing their jobs.

His room was in a corner where two hallways met, and there was a frantic flurry of nurse activity in and out of every room down the hallway on the right. The hallway ahead though, where the elevators were located, was empty. Eliot couldn't help himself. "Parker, you didn't...?"

"Don't worry Eliot, no one's gonna die." She sprinted forward toward the elevators and pressed the call button, holding the door open as Eliot moved as fast as he could to reach her. Once inside, he leaned heavily into the corner of the elevator. Parker reached under her jacket and pulled out an arm sling. He gave her a small smile of thanks as she helped him pull it over his aching head and get it adjusted properly. Then she stood back and scrutinized him again.

"You haven't been eating."

"It's only been a coupla days, Parker. Not months. You can't even tell." She gave him the stubborn frown again, but turned toward the elevator door as it slid open on the ground floor. The lobby was empty, but instead of heading out the main doors, Parker turned down a side hallway. "I parked in a side lot where there's not as many people. I didn't bring Lucille, it's a plain car that even Hardison won't be able to track."

She set a quick pace down the hall and Eliot found it difficult to keep up. All his injuries from the carnival were making themselves known again and vying with his new injuries for attention. He hoped she hadn't parked too far away.

They exited the sliding door, but Eliot pulled her back under the overhang. He had caught movement far away to the left, where the small parking lot wrapped around the corner of the building to join the main lot in front. Just outside the arc of illuminated pavement under a security lamp, a man leaned against the wall. He might have just stepped out for a smoke. Maybe his wife was in labor, or a beloved family member had been in an accident. His features were asian however, and Eliot was taking no chances.

He pointed the man out to Parker, then led her silently away, tight against the wall of the hospital. When they were out of possible sight of the man, Eliot stopped again. He did not want to admit it was to catch his breath, and regain his balance. Parker led the way across the dark part of the lot to a small blue sedan. She gave him an odd look when he didn't argue and indicated she should drive. Then, she turned her back to him so easily. Fully trusting. It made what he was about to do just a little more distasteful.

Moving up close behind Parker, he snaked his left arm around her throat. And he was proud, so very proud, of the way she tried to fight back. But he had caught her completely by surprise: she'd never considered him an enemy, and he had just enough strength left to overpower her.

"'M sorry, sweetheart. Can't have you gettin' hurt because of me."

Parker went limp, and Eliot dragged her backward a few feet and lowered her to the ground on the berm in front of the parked cars, as deep under a tree as he could, out of the rain. She wouldn't be out long, but he took the time to check her pulse and breathing. There was a very small chance of permanent injury, but weighed against certain death if Parker accompanied him, the choice Eliot made was easy. She would probably hate him for the rest of her life.

Hopefully, it would be a very long and healthy life.

-TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I am saddened to learn of the death of Robert Blanche who portrayed Detective Captain Patrick Bonnano on Leverage. Back when I first began plotting this story more than a year ago, I had already planned on giving Bonnano a small, but somewhat important part to play in the grand scheme of this story. Now, I hope it will be a fitting enough tribute for this tough, incorruptible, wonderful character. He won't be in this chapter, but he'll return soon.**

 **Warnings in this chapter for some language and Eliot being angry.**

* * *

Chapter 9

Shelley pulled into the supermarket parking lot, deserted in this hour just before dawn. He parked in the center, directly under the only flickering sodium vapor lamp, as the sudden bizarre text from Eliot's team had instructed. He turned off the car and waited, also as instructed. What was Ford's damn game now? The reflection of the flickering lamp in the rain beading heavily on the car windshield was disconcerting. A few moments later, Ford himself - or so Shelley assumed based upon the measured and cocky gait of the silhouetted figure - approached as far as the edge of flickering light and beckoned him to exit the car.

Shelley got out and walked up to Ford expecting...well, he wasn't sure what. Ford made no move, and Shelley stopped a respectful distance from him. He glanced around, hoping he appeared casual and unflustered.

"Where's the one with the taser?"

"Oh, she's around." He couldn't tell if Ford meant to be flippant. The man regarded him closely, and Shelley was struck by the same feeling he had back in the apartment so short a time, and forever, ago: that Ford's consideration of him held physical weight, and he was disconcerted that he didn't know the man well enough to read _him_. He would hate to play poker against this man.

"I apologize for this cloak and dagger meeting. We had to be sure you'd follow our instructions one last time and not try to bring your friends down on us. We know you've been meeting with people." Of _course_ they knew. Shelley waited. This was becoming almost surreal.

"And while I believe Eliot instructed you _only_ to keep us out of this and let him do what he thinks he has to alone...I believe you want to help him also, don't you? Or you wouldn't be meeting with people and planning whatever you're planning." Was this some kind of test? Shelley fought the irrational urge to squirm like a five-year-old trying to come up with a good excuse for his baby sister's new unsanctioned haircut.

"Eliot doesn't trust a lot of people. The fact he trusted you enough to put us under _your_ protection carries a lot of weight with us. But I hope you see he isn't acting rationally. He escaped the hospital a little over an hour ago and he's in the wind, but we think we're getting a slightly clearer picture of what's going on." Ford stared at him, and the hairs rose on the back of Shelley's neck. What was he expected to say?

"If we show you what we've found, will you help us keep Eliot from walking into a trap?"

* * *

Ford led him to the team's dark van, pulled up behind the building in the shadows. He slid open the side door to reveal the hacker sitting at an impressive bank of computers against the wall, and Devereaux sitting in the turned front passenger seat. The little taser-wielding terror was nowhere to be seen. "Hardison, tell Shelley everything." And Hardison proceeded to do just that.

"Okay...so we don't know _why_ Eliot is after Atherton, but he was at Atherton's house when it blew up. There was a body pulled out of the house along with Eliot, but it wasn't Atherton, turned out to be some wannabe street thug who doesn't seem to have any ties to anything. He was too low level to be involved with Moreau's kinda people..." The hacker stretched as well as he could within the cramped van and cracked his neck back and forth before continuing.

"According to some information I _acquired_ regarding the investigation into the explosion, Atherton and his family have not been seen by neighbors for several days...school has the kids listed as excused absences, but that's flimsy..."

 _"How_ long?"

"Only a day or so _before_ the breakout in San Lorenzo."

Shelley tried to piece the timeline together in his head. "So maybe...Atherton hid them? If he knew Moreau was going to escape? But he was believed dead and anyway, _how_ would he know? Or...would he come out of hiding to help Moreau out, try to buy his way back into the fold? But then who blew the house up? What purpose does _that_ serve?"

"All good questions m'man that we do _not_ have answers for, but maybe Eliot's thinkin' the same thing about Atherton's motives and he would know the dead guy in the house was _not_ Atherton, so on the assumption Eliot is still _lookin' for_ Atherton...I've been digging into his past life, pulled some property records associated with his extended family...tryin' to narrow down where he might go if he was hidin'..."

Shelley's attention was caught by street camera footage running on another screen. "What's this showing?"

A delicate hand with long tapered fingers appeared in his periphery then, showing him a phone screen. Shelley barely avoided jerking sideways in surprise and making a fool of himself. When had the the team's ghost of a thief entered the van? He silently composed himself and glance at the screen. It showed a map and a little blinking green dot. The dot was stationary.

"I didn't want him to run away from _me,_ so I stole some of Hardison's trackers...I checked while we waited for you, but Eliot changed clothes and left the car in an alley behind a church. There was a clothes donation bin back there."

Hardison picked the narrative back up. "He must have stolen another car, but he'd be smart enough not to take one with a tracking device. There's only two ways off that street, and only one of those exits straight to a major thoroughfare, the other dead ends in a neighborhood. I pulled the recordings from around the time Eliot left the hospital. This early, with the traffic so light we were hoping...but you can't see the drivers on screen very well with all the rain."

Shelley considered the vehicles passing by on the recordings. "Those properties you pulled...is one of them a cabin in the Green Mountains of Vermont?"

"Yeah..." Hardison glanced up at him, but it was Ford's sharp look that Shelley returned.

"Okay Ford, yes. I know a little more about Atherton than I let on. Back in the day, he couldn't shut up about his "summer home" as if he felt the need to impress everyone around him. I'd have been _more_ impressed if he ever took the summer off to actually join his family there." Shelley pointed at a dark-colored older SUV passing by on screen, half-hidden by sheets of rain. "Eliot'd need a vehicle like that to get up there in this weather."

Ford considered for half a minute. "It's a better guess than anything we've come up with so far. There's more though. Hardison?"

The hacker tapped a few keys, and the surveillance footage changed to a parking lot. Shelley was momentarily disoriented, then he realized it was the small side lot at Massachusetts General Hospital. The camera was situated such that he could make out the side door of the hospital and part of the parking lot. He was confused at first when he saw what appeared to be Eliot and the team's little thief leave the hospital together, but with the sudden mood shift in the van, and tension he could feel emanating from the people around him, he decided not to ask.

The two people disappeared off screen, but they didn't seem to be Hardison's primary focus as he zoomed in on an area in the upper left of the screen, and Shelley could barely make out another figure. The hacker seemed to have some pretty impressive software, better than the police currently used, because that shadowy figured resolved enough to become familiar.

"Bottlehead from the pub. Damn."

"Yeah. Seems like he didn't see Eliot and Parker, but I've got slightly later footage that shows him on a cell phone, then he books for a car and peels outta there. And lookit this." He brought up a camera from elsewhere on the hospital grounds. A man with obvious bandaging on his nose could be seen behind the wheel of a second car, turning right out of the main hospital parking lot, as several police cars arrived, with lights flashing and reflecting brightly in the rain.

"Tableface. I take it that wasn't long after Eliot left the hospital. Ford..." Shelley straightened up and turned in the narrow space to face him fully. "We don't have much time here, so let me lay it out for you. Before you ask, I don't know anything more about Eliot's beef with the North Koreans than you do, or how they even knew he was at the hospital. I know you had the pub wired, so you already know about the old man's message to Eliot.

"Yes, I have been meeting with people who can help us in this situation. I'm calling them in as soon as we're done here, but the closest people we can _trust_ are also more or less in Boston, so they'll be affected by the weather too. Hardison, could you get me the GPS coordinates of that cabin?"

Hardison handed him a folded sheet of paper.

Shelley regarded the team for a moment longer, but he couldn't really find fault with them and their dedication to Eliot. He sighed. "I know I'd be wasting my breath if I told you to stay here in Boston so I won't. I _will_ tell you that you are NOT equipped at all to help us in this matter, so please hang back, and stay out of our way. Let _me_ bring Eliot to you when we're done with this. Please take my word that I will."

Shelley waited for their collective answer, feeling the eyes of each team member burn into him in this cramped space. It did not help that Parker was behind him, completely out of his line of sight. After a moment that felt more like a century, Ford glanced over at Hardison and gave him a small nod. Hardison handed him a tiny earpiece.

"We'll stay back if you keep us updated what's goin' on."

Shelley took the tiny earpiece and inspected it, feeling as though he had passed some sort of test. "Okay. We've got about two hundred and thirty miles, four hours give or take, in this weather. Follow me, and when I tell you to pull over and stay parked, you pull over and stay parked. Your van's not built for snow. Got it?" Shelley slid open the van's side door and jumped down. He pulled his phone out even as he made his way back to his own car.

* * *

Back in the day, Atherton's father-in-law had owned an expensive yuppie cabin and some prime wilderness property high in the Green Mountains of northern Vermont. It was one of those things Atherton had liked to drop into casual conversations, though without the mention it wasn't actually _his_. That, and a carefully placed photograph of his family on the front porch, carefully posed in overpriced, trendy cold-weather casual gear: his wife holding their oldest child, less than a year of age at the time the photo was taken. Atherton himself had a shotgun across his arms, but considering he kept Pekingese instead of any number of sporting dog breeds, Eliot doubted he had ever shot any bird with more life in it than a clay pigeon. He had certainly never seen active combat.

The photo was stage-dressing, nothing more. Atherton was all about appearances. Eliot hoped that if he was not working with Moreau now, that he had never mentioned this cabin to him, or shown him that picture. As Chapman had said, Atherton was predictable and if Eliot had figured out this was his hideaway, he could be sure Moreau would know it as well. Moreau, or perhaps Atherton's other "friend", the North Korean crime lord. If either of them were watching the cabin, or currently _in_ the cabin, the storm should help mask Eliot's approach. This late-season doozy was dropping snow north of the Massachusetts state line, in the higher mountain elevations.

He had guessed the hour was late when Parker broke him out of the hospital, but it turned out to be early. Very, very, early. Being knocked out and drugged had thrown off his internal clock. He'd been unconscious far too long. What had happened since Atherton's house exploded? After leaving Parker behind, steeling himself against the guilt his actions unexpectedly brought, Eliot had debated if the delay to stop and steal a different car was worth it. Knowing the winter weather ahead, and guessing that Hardison could easily have put a tracking device on Parker's wheels, Eliot had briefly cruised the quieter neighborhoods and back alleys until he found something that would suit his needs: an early-model Chevy Tahoe, four-wheel drive, fitted with newer all-weather tires. It had a wheelbase wide enough for stability and the four-wheel drive, while useless in icy conditions, would be helpful if he hit deeper snow on the unmaintained roads leading to Atherton's property. It was old enough to not have a built-in tracking device, but the new tires suggested it was maintained in good driving condition.

That had been over four hours ago, and now Eliot was beginning to climb into the Green Mountains. The Tahoe's wipers were clearing more slush than rain now, and Eliot knew he had to start planning his final approach. He was getting close. Parker said the others were investigating Atherton...it would only be a matter of time until Hardison made the connection to this cabin. Hopefully, the snow would slow the team down or stop them altogether.

Maybe, after what he had done to Parker, they would finally realize he wasn't worth pursuing. It was for the best. Somewhere deep inside, call it his gut intuition, he'd always suspected he would die in service to Moreau...or perhaps, by his hand. He'd just never expected to be with people he...cared about...when the time came.

Eliot felt he had been granted a reprieve when they put Moreau away...but he had missed the clock counting down. He'd been complacent, he'd let himself believe that it might really be all over with, that he could relax and leave the shadow of Moreau behind. He'd been naive. It was merely a stay of execution.

Eliot didn't realize he'd accelerated a bit, and when he hit a slushy patch, the Tahoe fishtailed. His instinct kicked in and he let up on the accelerator and steered calmly through until the tires found traction again.

 _Stop!_ Eliot mentally yelled at himself. He was getting nowhere with this line of thinking; he had to remain focused. But this momentary loss of concentration made him realize quite suddenly that he had been operating in a state of low-grade panic since he first received General Flores' phone call. No more. He had to find the steady, dead, cold spot in his heart.

* * *

The filling station was nothing more than four old pumps huddled under a low concrete canopy, itself huddled next to a tiny convenience store, all under a stand of native red pine. Located off the main highway, this small filling station catered mainly to a few locals during the off season, so the arrival of Lucille and her motley passengers was cause for curiosity among the staff of exactly one elderly man behind the counter. To stave off curiosity, Nate provided some vague story about sick relatives and wrong turns and do you mind if we park in a corner of your lot for a while to rest?

It seemed to be enough to satisfy the old man, who was completely won over by Nate's obvious distress and worry for his beloved elderly aunt. And so team Leverage parked Lucille unobtrusively back under the trees and rain facing the road, and settled in to listen as Shelley continued onward to his designated meet up.

The wait wasn't easy, and Nate knew Shelley was moving things forward as quickly as he could but it still took time, and Nate suspected this was going to be _very_ off the books, so Shelley would have to tread carefully. Hardison and Sophie both were trying to doze, trying and failing. Parker had been silent and surly in the back for the entire drive up here. And Nate berated himself for not personally going to the hospital instead of sending her. Instead of letting his _avoidance_ of hospitals cloud his judgment.

The strategist in Nate saw the wisdom of Eliot's moves, but there was a fatal flaw in his game play. He regarded the entire _team_ as his king to be protected at all costs, and not as the individual and powerful game pieces they truly were. This had to stop. They had to sit Eliot down and somehow get it through his thick skull that he was worth so much more to them than a simple pawn to be sacrificed.

If they could just get him back safely.

* * *

Moreau, North Koreans, Atherton, the Italian. A priceless statue desired by all of them. Threads like parachute cords irreparably and irretrieveably tangled, and Eliot plunging headlong into the unknown. There had been no time to try to retrieve his Glock from the car he left at Atherton's house. Would have been fitting, if Moreau proved to be _here,_ now.

Of all the possibilities Eliot expected to be waiting for him at the cabin, Atherton sitting alone in the dark, unarmed and thoroughly unthreatening, ranked just about last on Eliot's list.

Sunlight barely penetrated the heavy snowfall outside, and gave up trying to brighten the room past the sheer drapes on the windows. For the briefest moment after Eliot slipped into the open main room to find Atherton slouched in an armchair before an unlighted fire, he had thought the man dead, such was the lack of movement, the lack of _life_ in his body.

The corpse and cabin must be a trap he had foolishly walked straight into but before he could turn to flee, Atheron took in a shaky breath and his eyes focused on Eliot.

"I've been a damn fool, Spencer." The voice was nearly that of a corpse anyway: coarse, dry, tinged with grief. Eliot felt the short hairs prickle on the back of his neck. Atherton pulled himself up and leaned forward in his seat, covering his face with his hands.

"He took them." The words were muffled, his voice cracked on the last one, and for a moment Atherton was wracked by silent sobs. "I'm _so_ sorry. He took them and I can't give him what he wants."

"Where is he? Why would you help Moreau?"

Atherton wiped his hands down his face, drawing in a shaky breath, and looked up at Eliot. His countenance was that of a thoroughly broken man. "Moreau? Moreau's locked up. _Thompson_ took my family because he..."

The beast inside Eliot rose in a sudden searing fury and grabbed Atherton out of his chair, swinging him around and slamming him hard up against the wall. His broken bones and strained muscles all protested the movement, but he silenced the pain and forced himself to focus as he pressed his forearm against Atherton's throat...just...tightly...enough.

"Thompson is _dead_. Your little _weasel_ died in the ambush that took my _team!"_ It would be all too easy to press just a little harder and make sure Atherton died for real this time.

This close though, Eliot could read the truth in Atherton's watery eyes. The man whimpered, his adam's apple working against the pressure of Eliot's forearm. "He made it out but we...we made it look like he didn't. Okay Spencer? I admit I'm not a good man. But he's got my family now and I can't get him what he wants. I don't know where it is!"

"The monkey, Atherton? It that what he _wants?"_ Bracing himself against the pain again, Eliot pulled Atherton from the wall, and dragged him to the dining table, all but dropping him into one of the chairs. _"Talk!"_

And Atherton was all too eager to obey. "I...I heard Moreau got put away. I waited a couple of months just to be sure but it seemed safe so I...contacted Thompson for his help. There were a couple of places I knew Moreau might have stashed the monkey, but I was supposed to be lying low and Thompson had the resources and manpower to go after it...The first couple of locations were a bust but then, a few days ago..."

"A few days ago, he had a run in with a small army?" Eliot had braced himself behind another of the solid wood dining room chairs, gripping the back and leaning over it, ostensibly to intimidate Atherton but in reality, it was so he could hold himself upright against the exhaustion and pain. He didn't think he had shifted his fractured ribs or clavical, but they were making their displeasure with his violent movements known. The itchy dampness under the bandaging on his back however, suggested he may have pulled a stitch or two. It didn't matter right now.

What mattered was that Thompson, his death being one of the very few things Eliot had been grateful for in the years since that failed mission, was suddenly alive and well again. The darkness lapping at the edges of his vision was not solely unconsciousness threatening to claim him, it was also the familiar impotent rage he remembered from his time captive, watching as his men, his _friends,_ those who had survived the initial ambush, succumed one by one to untreated wounds, torture, and the whims of his captors _tell us where the monkey is!_ until only Eliot, with his damn stubborn will to live and to avenge, was left. Until his captors one day underestimated that will, and Eliot walked out of that camp with more blood than had been strictly necessary upon his hands.

Atherton had paused his narrative, and was regarding Eliot with a look of abject fear that was not nearly as satisfying as Eliot might have expected. His own countenance must be terrifying: what Hardison jokingly described as his 'rage face', now all battered and bruised.

"How did you know?"

"I know their boss." For this must have been the incident the Italian had described to Eliot. She had said the unknown mercenaries had _all_ been killed, but maybe Thompson was just really good at saving his own ass and screw anyone else. He always had been crazy, but it was not Parker's brand of crazy.

Atherton's voice still shook. "He contacted me afterward. He was angry, thought I double crossed him...then he told me he had them, my family...I only dealt with Thompson from _here,_ never from the house...I don't know how he found out about the identities your team gave us." A note of accusation crept into Atherton's voice then. Eliot had no doubt about _Hardison's_ hard work. The fault didn't lie with the hacker. Chapman had been right that Atherton was predictable, and Atherton had never been a _real_ soldier, so it wouldn't have taken much skill to follow him home.

"I gave him all the other locations of Moreau's stashes, but they were already raided, or the monkey just wasn't there...and now he's given me a deadline and I have nothing else to give _him."_

"Blowing up your house was a message to _us."_ Eliot leaned back from the chair, though he still gripped it tightly for balance. He couldn't hide the disgust on his face and in his voice. "You wanted our help again, but you didn't know how to contact us."

Atherton nodded silently.

Once again, Eliot grabbed up Atherton from his chair and ran him backward into a wall. "For good reason, you stupid sonofa _bitch!"_ Eliot punctuated each exclamation by shoving Atherton back into the wall, again and again. He ignored the biting pain of his own injuries. "We warned you this was your _one_ chance. You could start _completely_ fresh! Not many people get that, and you threw it _away!"_ Eliot pressed Atherton more tightly this time: arm almost too tight across his throat. He knew he was hurting the man, but he didn't care one bit. Words could not express the depth of Eliot's rage and hatred in this moment seemingly caught out of time.

Given a chance to start again, with a clean slate, endless possibilities ahead of him, and a family (whose love he didn't deserve) at his side, he'd gone right back to old habits and old ways. It sickened Eliot not just to see Atherton throw everything away simply for his own greed, but because the very thought of it made Eliot so deeply uncomfortable on a level so personal that he shied away from contemplating it any further. Instead, he stepped back, releasing Atherton before he could let himself go that tiniest step too far, and completely crush the man's windpipe.

Atherton crumpled to the floor, coughing, and Eliot grabbed him again by the lapels and dragged him to sit upright, leaning him against the wall to catch his breath. He knelt down and leaned in close. "You contact your Korean friend also?"

Atherton nodded, gasping for his breath. His voice was strained. "He wasn't interested in the monkey."

Eliot snorted. "He lied to you. He's here, but he's waiting for Moreau. Who, by the way, _isn't_ locked up in San Lorenzo anymore."

Atherton's eyes widened. "Dear God," he whispered.

"Yeah. Now listen to me: Where is Thompson? How're you supposed to contact him when you have the monkey to trade?"

"Not the monkey...an I don' have to contact him..." Atherton's windpipe was swelling, and he forced the words out with a wheeze.

Eliot had no sympathy for his discomfort, but he pulled Atherton close again to be sure he properly understood the man's words. "What're you tryin' to say?"

"I'm a fool, Spencer...But...fool who loves his family. I...I convinced him you...Moreau's retrieval specialist...It's too late...They're here." Atherton was staring over Eliot's shoulder, and Eliot realized he had become too focused on this interrogation. He had let his guard down. He stood and turned, swaying dangerously, to face the window he had stupidly left his back to. Dark shapes moved past in the swirling whiteness. Eliot's mouth went dry. Now the pieces were beginning to slot together, and a picture was forming.

Eliot turned back to Atherton, pulled him close once again. "Don't you get it? As soon as he has me, he'll kill you! You and your family are of no value to him any longer! Did he send you proof of life, maybe by phone? Give it to me!"

Still wheezing, Atherton fumbled in his front pocket and produced an old, small flip phone. Eliot took it and dropped it into his own pocket, even as he heard the heavy footsteps on the front porch.

"I will find your family. Not for you, but because they're innocent." The promise sounded false to Eliot's own ears. But maybe...maybe there was a chance...or maybe Eliot was simply losing the last of his sanity by even considering the possibility. "I ain't bringin' you with me, so Thompson's probably gonna kill you. Do you understand?"

Atherton nodded, resigned. "Best thing...for 'em...'M not good for...them." He was still crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath. Eliot picked up a dining table chair and swung it at the large, plate-glass window past which Thompson's men had just rushed. The glass shattered, wind and snow swirled in, and Eliot used the ends of the long drapes to protect his hands as he vaulted himself over the sill and into the storm.

He hit the ground running, not surprised by the sound of automatic fire that opened up moments later when Thompson's men realized what he had done. Bullets pinged off the ground and a tree just to his left, low because they probably only wanted to lame him, but he entered the tree line and zig zagged his trajectory before the shooter could center his fire. Eliot didn't have the energy to outrun an entire squad of Thompson's men for long, but he only needed to reach the Tahoe again, which he had left stashed on a snow-choked ATV track in the woods behind the cabin. The four-wheel drive should get him back down the track and on to an open road ahead of Thompson's men...he hoped.

About the time Eliot reached the Tahoe, he became aware of a steady thump, growing louder and all to familiar by the second. Not only did Thompson seem to have his own private army, somehow he got himself a Black Hawk helicopter? _Damnit all!_ Over the thump of the rotor, the quiet of the woods behind Eliot was shattered by the sound of automatic weapons fire. Eliot ducked into the Tahoe, but no bullets impacted anywhere near him. Who were they engaging?

Eliot slammed the door, started the Tahoe, and prayed that the storm would remain heavy enough to mask him from the air.

* * *

The team listened, silent and unmoving as Shelley briefed his people. It was surreal: phrases and commands they could barely understand, given to an unknown number of people they would likely never meet. Shelley had figured out the on and off settings for the earbud, and used the option sparingly. The team let it slide because he was at least keeping them informed, and this was _his_ area of expertise.

They could hear a helicopter fire up, but the sound died away over the coms; Shelley must be going in with part of the team by land and not air. Nate couldn't help but watch Lucille's dashboard clock, which ticked over too slowly and yet with the same unstoppable purpose as a bomb ticking toward detonation.

The explosion came not in a single mad rush of light and sound, but rather with the halting staccato of automatic gunfire. Nate, Sophie, Hardison, and Parker waited, breaths held, hands clenched, for any clue as to the progress, hoping and praying for a quick and clean outcome, respectfully remaining silent to let Shelley work without distraction. Gunfire, unintelligible shouting voices...and finally, silence.

Then, an unfamiliar voice reporting to Shelley, "...no sign of him sir, but there are tracks..." And Shelley swore a blue streak.

In the breathless silence inside the van, Hardison came to the sudden realization that he had consumed entirely too much orange soda while they had waited and now nature was calling with an urgency as dire as the team felt at the realization Eliot had seemed to slip through their grasp once again. He slipped out the side door of the van and considered his options. He knew with the greatest certainty he had ever had that the team would agree as one to go up into the mountains and hope for a miracle that they could intercept Eliot. And they would want to leave _NOW_.

So, the quickest and most private option for Hardison was the stand of red pines. Damn nature. As Hardison tended to business, constantly peeking around to be sure the rain would keep unwanted persons, unwanted Bigfoots, and _Parker_ away from his little copse of trees, he caught sight of a very fancy, very _expensive,_ large white sedan at one of the gas station pumps across the lot. The driver must have just finished filling and was getting back into the car, but Hardison recognized Tableface from the pub and hospital security tapes. He turned and ran for Lucille.

 _"Nate!"_

* * *

The Tahoe's power and four-wheel drive had been helpful in getting through the narrow, snow-clogged seasonal roads leading to Atherton's cabin, but they were nearly useless on the slick, slushy lower roads where the storm hovered between rain and snow. A single degree of change in temperature could mean the difference between patches of road that were just wet, and those that were treacherously icy.

Eliot had to balance speed with traction because he had already skidded and fishtailed several times. There was only one road out of this area: back the way he had come, before he could meet up with the interstate again, but Eliot didn't think he'd be able to lose his tail before then.

With the road twisting and threading its way through trees and around hillsides, he hadn't noticed the tail until the road had opened up on a short straightaway through flatter land. The dark SUV, newer than his own stolen Tahoe, _could_ just belong to a local, some year-round resident in some community lower down the mountain. But Eliot hadn't survived this long by banking on 'could be's.

If some of Thompson's men had escaped the fracas at the cabin, whatever had happened back there...they'd be fully armed but they wouldn't shoot to kill if they believed Eliot had the information Atherton told them he did. But Eliot would not not need to be _completely_ healthy and intact to be interrogated.

A large white Cadillac sedan appeared out of the storm ahead of him. At first, it appeared to be in no rush: this one might actually _be_ a civilian, Eliot thought before he caught sight of the driver, possibly the same man with asian features he had seen back in the hospital parking lot.

On this narrow two-lane road, the driver had initially been hugging the outside of his own uphill lane to give Eliot, heading downhill, plenty of room to pass safely in this bad weather. When the driver locked eyes with him in the moment just before they began to pass each other however, Eliot saw recognition light the man's features and he pulled hard left, possibly intending to block the road with his own vehicle.

But he underestimated the maneuver, and while the big Cadillac did begin to turn, it continued its forward movement uphill. It was much too late for Eliot to avoid hitting the car, and though it would normally have been but a glancing blow for the bigger vehicle, the left side of the Tahoe's front end crumpled. The only explanation that crossed Eliot's mind in that moment, was that the car was armored.

Instead of shoving the sedan out of the way and continuing unimpeded, the Tahoe was forced to the right, and its passenger side wheels left the road's shoulder and slammed into the rocky ditch, jarring Eliot's broken bones painfully. For a brief, suspended moment of time, Eliot felt the Tahoe's left wheels leave pavement and he feared the ditch might be deep enough to cause it to continue rolling to the right, out of the brush and rock-choked ditch and over the slight berm to continue down the slope on its roof.

But the moment passed, the left-side wheels slammed back down, and the ditch wasn't quite as deep as Eliot feared. He gunned the Tahoe forward, tearing up brush and throwing stones, half in and half out of the ditch until the shoulder of the road shallowed enough for him to bring both sets of wheels back onto the pavement. The Tahoe skidded hard then, fishtailed, and almost spun, but Eliot coaxed it straight and continued as quickly as he dared down the road.

He spared a glance back at the other car, stopped with its own front wheels in the opposite ditch and blocking the road. Another man had gotten out of the passanger side and was aiming his pistol at the Tahoe's fast-retreating form. One of his rounds, or a sharp rock, tore open a rear tire, and Eliot had a constant fight on his hands keeping the vehicle straight. In the meantime, his tail had gained ground quickly and didn't bother to slow as it approached, obviously intending to push through the roadblock that was the disabled sedan.

Eliot returned his attention to the road. There was something else seriously wrong with the Tahoe's suspension and steering, and even as he began to slow, fearing another spinout due to the flattened tire, the engine coughed and missed. Something in the collision with the sedan, or pushing through the cluttered ditch had torn the Tahoe up worse underneath than Eliot had feared, and he began to search for a place where he could make a break for cover on foot, before the vehicle could die completely.

He glanced back again at his tail, the SUV in the process of shoving past the rear end of the car. The gunman from the sedan turned and fired at the SUV, and was met with return fire.

The Tahoe's engine coughed once more then simply ceased to turn over. Eliot let the vehicle coast until it stopped on its own, but there was still no good place to run for cover on either side of the road. The right-hand side, that he had just a short time ago nearly rolled off of had now leveled to a flat and open meadow. No cover. The left-hand side rose steeply into a tree line, and it might be possible to scrabble up that way, but it would be slow and excruciating going if he had to use both arms to pull himself up. Either way, he'd be on foot in winter weather, too far from civilization in a body whose strength was rapidly failing him.

Whatever he chose, Eliot _knew_ Atherton's wife and daughters had no chance at all. If all Thompson had wanted from Atherton was Eliot, and by extension that monkey, then Atherton's family was no less expendable than he had been. In a moment of sentimentality, Eliot had made a promise he couldn't keep to a dying man who didn't deserve it. Atherton's phone weighed heavily in his pocket.

Eliot watched the approaching SUV in the rearview mirror. He could no longer make out the sedan further back. The snow level was lowering with the coming afternoon, and the flakes were getting heavy and dense with moisture, the curtains of snow closing in tight all around, and sharply cutting visibility. The failing light and drifting snow would still not provide enough cover for Eliot to try running for it. His third option, no more desirable than the other two, would be to allow Thompson's men to take him without further fight. An opportunity might present itself later for him to escape. _Maybe_ he could use the time to get some more answers of his own, but this was not a time to be optimistic.

Behind the approaching SUV, Eliot could make out the headlights of a second vehicle, moving up beside the first as it began to slow behind his disabled vehicle. Eliot popped open the driver's door and stepped out slowly to face them, hands out and unthreatening. The second vehicle moved to pass him and block the road ahead. They need not bother, Eliot thought: he wasn't going anywhere. The second vehicle stopped quickly, before it passed, surprising him. At the same time, he began to detect the low roar of another engine approaching from behind, the way he had been headed. If it was more Koreans, he'd be caught in the crossfire between these two groups. And then, crazily, the thump of the Black Hawk again, though it was still a ways off and invisible through the storm. _What the hell was goin' on here?_ He chanced a quick glance behind himself at the approaching newcomer. The snow had closed in thick and all Eliot could make out was a large dark vehicle looming out of the swirling flakes, approaching much too quickly to stop in time.

-TBC

 **A/N: I feel really bad about killing that Tahoe. Sorry.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Warning for some language and brief talk of self-harm - not glorified. Also, there is much angst.**

* * *

Chapter 10

On flat city streets in clear weather, Lucille handled like a dream for a vehicle of her length and bulk. A dream that ocassionally turned nightmarish if Parker was allowed behind the wheel which was to say, as rarely as possible.

Lucille wasn't built for mountain driving in severe weather though, Shelley had been correct about that. And that was why, when Hardison had come running back to the van after his communal with nature, breathlessly informing them that at least some of the Koreans they had thought to be ahead of them were actually only just now arriving, and coupling that with the need to intercept Eliot before they completely lost him again, Sophie had demanded in no uncertain terms that Nate yield the driver's seat to her.

After all, she was the only one of the team who had ever driven the Yungas Road in Bolivia, more than once in oversized _overloaded_ ramshackle lorries. During the rainy season.

Even Parker didn't have that claim to fame.

And with her driving, Nate was free to have a politely-worded but very firm _discussion_ over the coms with Shelley, wherein he managed to alert Shelley of the Koreans' pending surprise, and learn from him that the firefight had been against a completely new, heretofore unknown party, that the survivors weren't talking, and that Atheron was NOT one of those survivors.

Shelley's side of the conversation took on a decidedly less polite tone when Nate informed him of the team's change of plans, and their current location. Nate was simply performing his due diligence: it wouldn't do to get caught up in anyone's crossfire up on the mountain. And he made it abundantly clear to Shelley that the team wasn't asking his permission.

There was no way to know just how many Koreans were congregating on the area and if any of them might come upon Eliot before the team did. Sophie had already dealt with the car Hardison spotted, in a textbook PIT maneuver that had left Hardison yelping, Parker cheering, and Nate silently grasping Lucille's armrests. It was quite gratifying to know she could still surprise Nate like that, from time to time.

Despite the car's obviously armored weight, Lucille pushed through without much difficulty, and they left Tableface and his passenger sliding into a ditch as they sped forward, up the mountain. At least that was two down, who knew how many to go.

For the last few miles though, as the storm settled lower, she had been playing cat and mouse with a second sedan, a twin to the one they had just left in the ditch. It appeared and disappeared on the road ahead, through veils of slushy rain, just beginning to switch over to snow. Sophie didn't dare try to get closer. For now it seemed the the driver hadn't noticed them and wasn't in too much of a hurry, even if the Koreans in the other car had managed to get a call through to them. Hardison had choked down any pain he might share with his beloved van's injury, and was tracing their route on GPS. There were no side roads for quite a while between here and the cabin, so Sophie felt confident dropping behind the sedan far enough to lose sight of it.

They could only hope this was the route Eliot had chosen to take off the mountain.

Sophie squinted through the shifting snow. What was that dark shape ahead? A dark shape with...glowing headlights. A vehicle but more importantly...

"That's Eliot!" Parker leaned forward between the two front seats and pointed unnecessarily at the figure standing next to the stalled vehicle on the road ahead.

The vehicle that was in the middle of the road, stationary, and that she was in great danger of simply plowing into. The next moment, they saw Eliot begin to turn toward them _and why were his hands raised like he was surrendering?_ Sophie whispered some very unladylike things under her breath and began to brake hard, anticipating the heavy van's unpleasant reaction. She allowed Lucille to slalom and spin and finally come to a rest side-on to and less than fifteen feet from the tableau ahead.

And what a tableau it was. There were men on the other side of Eliot, guns trained on him and now, on them as well. The men had military bearing and dress, but they were certainly not Shelley's people. Must be mercenaries of some kind.

"We've got to get him in the van. Shelley's on his way but he won't make it in time."

Sophie hadn't realized Nate was still in contact with Shelley and had informed him of the situation. Lucille had come to rest with her passenger side facing Eliot, and Hardison immediately slid open the big side door, letting in wind and snow.

* * *

"Eliot!"

Hardison saw the very moment when Eliot's confused look turned to one of horror. "Get out of here, Hardison! Damnit! _Get the hell out of here!"_

And indeed, several of the mercenaries from the two vehicles behind Eliot _(and good Lord, there were more making their way down the road!)_ had trained their weapons upon Lucille. Eliot turned back toward the mercenaries and yelled something, but with the gusting wind, Hardison couldn't make it out. Their leader yelled something in return and Eliot took a step toward them, _away_ from his team, hands still raised, placating. Oh _hell_ no! That man was not gonna be anyone's sacrificial lamb if Hardison could help it!

Heedless of his own safety, Hardison stepped down out of Lucille and stalked forward, and several additional mercenaries trained their weapons on him. Right now, he simply didn't care. This whole thing just wasn't _right_. It was like watching a scene out of a movie, but at the same time it was all to hyper-real.

"Well I guess we're all gonna get shot then 'cause we ain't leavin' here without yore sorry ass! _Get. In. The. Van!"_ He was almost close enough to touch Eliot now.

Eliot must have noticed the movement of the weapons. He turned toward Hardison again: battered, bloodied, and oh so angry to see him out of the van. But before he could say a word, Hardison was in his face, grabbing at his shoulders.

"Do you know you've been my brother for longer than anyone ever, Eliot? _Anyone!_ And I ain't leaving you behind!" Eliot moved as if to free himself from Hardison's grip, but at that moment, a bullet pinged off the asphault at their feet: a warning shot. Eliot was between the mercenaries and himself, and they seemed reluctant to shoot Eliot to get to him. Lucille with her occupants however, was fair game, and one man squeezed off a short burst at _her,_ stitching a pattern along her flank.

Hardison would have to put off being incensed for now because at that same moment, the wind shifted and and the nearly sub-audible throbbing that had been in the background of his consciousness resolved itself into the thump of a heavy-duty helicopter rotor, not yet visible through the blowing snow. Many of the mercenaries turned toward the sound. Taking advantage of their moment of distraction, Eliot yelled something loud and angry at Hardison and pushed him toward Lucille, but even Hardison could tell his friend lacked his usual strength and so _he_ took the chance to grab Eliot tightly and pull him toward the van. Eliot struggled against him, but he was uncoordinated and slow.

Hardison would forever remember the terror of this day, but he didn't flinch when another round pinged off the van mere inches from his head. Eliot tried both to push Hardison into the van and pull away from him at the same time, but then there was a sudden jumble of arms reaching for them both, and Nate and Parker physically dragging them in while trying to slide the door shut all at the same time Lucille was turning, putting her rear to the gunfire and surging away, and Nate said _"yeah, we're clear"_ which didn't make _any_ sense, but then more gunfire erupted above and behind them and Hardison realized the helicopter must be strafing the ground.

And there was blood on his hands.

 _He_ didn't seem to be leaking anywhere, and the only thing that hurt was his shoulder from bumping into Lucille's doorframe when Nate pulled him in. Nate had returned to the front seat, talking to Sophie or Shelley, he couldn't tell, but there was no blood on him. Before Hardison could reach for Parker, to make sure _she_ was okay, Eliot got into his face.

 _"The HELL was that, Hardison?!_ The hell are you doing here? I told you not to come after me! You could have got yourselves killed! You still might!"

"Yeah? What was that back there, huh? Were they gonna take you out for a beer? Ya know, sometimes gettin' through to you is like talkin' to a brick wall. On'y, brick walls got the sense to STAY PUT! And who the hell's blood is _this?!"_

Hardison wasn't exactly given to panic attacks, though the sight of excessive blood did make him a little woozy, and extreme danger had a tendency to cause his heart to race. He retreated to his computer chair, and leaned forward, breathing deeply.

"Eliot's." And then Hardison saw it. Eliot remained crouched on Lucille's floor, and Parker was trying to assess a fresh wound in his upper right biceps. But Eliot just kept growling and yelling about following orders and how the team coulda been killed and what the _hell_ were they thinkin' tryin' to follow him...and then Parker poked Eliot hard. Right next to that wound and Eliot finally, for one blessed moment, shut up.

Hardison didn't know if he wanted to retch at the sight before him, or simply gaze in wonder as Parker worked. Because that was a lot of fresh blood still actively oozing out of their best friend and Parker didn't seem in the least phased by it. Eliot had squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to he focused on trying to control his ragged breathing.

Hardison took another deep breath of his own and started again. He was disconcerted to hear the dangerous edge to his own words. "Wanna explain why you were givin' up back there, Eliot?"

He wasn't sure what he expected from Eliot in return, certainly not a conciliatory reply. Parker reached over to one of Lucille's cabinets and pulled out their well-stocked first aid kit.

"They weren't gonna _kill_ me, Hardison..."

"Oh. That's nice. What, were they plannin' to just bust out a few teeth? Yank out a couple fingernails? Maybe sell you to some foreign agency that you pissed off in the past? I ask you again man: what the hell _was_ that?"

Eliot noticed Parker had pulled out the suture kit and was trying to get him to move somewhere she could have better access to his arm. "This needs stitches."

"Parker, it can wait 'til we stop. Just wrap it. I've had worse, I ain't gonna drop dead in the next few minutes..."

Parker's hands stilled and Hardison felt his eyes go wide. Not the best response. Not at _all_.

Parker's studious frown gave way then, but not to tears. Instead, her face went blank and she tucked the suture kit away, instead pulling out some gauze and wrapping. She dropped them in Eliot's lap, turned her back to him, and pulled herself up into one of Lucille's rear seats.

Not. Good. At all. Because that right there? That was Parker shutting down.

Hardison had seen it enough in the early days. Not for a long time now, and he had hoped never to see it again. But here it was and in that moment, Hardison hated Eliot. Hated him with every fiber of his being, because after everything, _everything_ this team had gone through together, Eliot was backsliding. Or maybe, it had all been a sham to begin with? Maybe, Eliot had _never_ crawled out of the mire of his past. And Hardison hated _himself_ for thinking that.

"Park..." But Eliot cut himself off, and just stared for a short moment at the back of her seat. Then, silently, he shifted himself to sit more comfortably back against Lucille's side wall, rolled up his sleeve and proceeded to bandage his own arm one-handed with a deftness that was disquieting when Hardison considered all the practice he must have had. It was almost enough to make him want to offer his assistance blood or no, but...not when he glanced again at Parker, jaw clenched and eyes staring downward, arms wrapped tight around herself. No, let the damn fool fix _himself_ this time. Hardison wanted nothing to do with him at the moment.

He tore open a heavy-duty pre-moistened towel and scrubbed Eliot's blood off his hands, wanting nothing more than to turn back to his computer screens, needing something to distract his mind, but he caught sight of Eliot holding out a small flip phone toward him. He didn't immediately take it.

"Those guys, they took Atherton's wife and daughters. They're probably dead but maybe...this could help you find them. At least give 'em a proper burial."

He took the phone wordlessly, and Eliot turned away.

Hardison looked down at the phone, but he couldn't do anything with it just yet. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

* * *

Sophie fixed every bit of her concentration on keeping Lucille on the snow slick road. She had removed her own earbud to better focus on her driving, but she listened to Nate's half of his conversation with Shelley.

"Yeah, we have Eliot, he's okay. We could use that safe house now." He tried to keep his tone light and businesslike, but Sophie could detect the strain, the exhaustion.

She heard him sign off with Shelley, and he removed his own earbud with a sigh. "They very likely don't have all the stragglers rounded up yet. Shelley's Jeep is going to be passing us in a few minutes. Follow him when he does."

Sophie nodded and focused on the drive they had ahead of them. If she listened too closely to the conversation behind her, and what she could see of the rest of their team in the rearview mirror, she'd be forced to pull the van over and personally strangle one very bloody idiot of a hitter.

And from the way Nate sat stiff and silently brooding in the passenger seat, staring at but not really _seeing_ the white-washed landscape around them, he'd gladly offer his assistance.

* * *

Eliot leaned his head back against the van's wall and closed his eyes. Hardison hadn't been too far off the truth: he'd had no idea what Thompson had planned for him when he was done with his questioning. Eliot would not have been able to give him what he wanted any more than Atherton had.

He would likely have been killed.

Eventually.

And Moreau was still out there, still a danger to the team.

Damn it. He was tired of this.

So tired.

 _Eliot spoke to Atherton exactly twice after his escape and return to friendly territory. The first time was in an empty hallway. It hadn't been planned, but the moment Eliot saw the General, something in him sparked and he simply grabbed the man, running him up against a wall, not unlike he had just done in the cabin. That first time though, there had been no fear in Atherton's eyes._

 _Eliot had looked for it, looked for any tiniest thing he could exploit, some little crack that would give Eliot the proof he needed, but the man was calm and confident. He even smiled._

 _"Spencer! May I be the first to congratulate you on your commendation? Single-handedly taking out a terrorist's camp is certainly not an easy feat..."_

 _Eliot growled low in his throat, but he had to release the man, he could hear footsteps approaching from around a corner. "You an' I both know why it was 'single-handedly,'_ General." _He sneered the last word. "Keep yer nose clean. The moment I have any proof..." The footsteps slowed, and turned the corner into their hallway. It was Vance. Before he could approach close enough for greetings, Eliot turned to leave._

 _"Spencer." Eliot stopped but didn't turn. "Enjoy your well-earned civilian life." Then Atherton turned to greet Vance, and Eliot walked away._

 _Atherton had not become entangled with Moreau until after Eliot had resigned as Moreau's enforcer, or at least, he had never been aware of him. When he heard as much through the grapevine, Eliot kept tabs. He even briefly contemplated simply killing him. But that would not have been enough. He wanted the man's sins known publicly. The thought of involving his new team to con the man into a confession never crossed Eliot's mind. This was his alone to deal with._

 _The next time he spoke directly to Atherton had been many years removed, but Eliot was not surprised to feel that hatred burn as strongly as it had when it was new. He had been keeping watch outside the Medical Examiner's office while the team explained things to Atherton. When he walked out clutching the envelope containing the new life Hardison had granted him, Eliot once more got in his face._

 _"Let me be abundantly clear, General...This is your one chance at fixing your trash heap of a life. You don't deserve it but your family does. So don't screw it up." Eliot loosed his grip, but didn't release Atherton just yet. He searched the man's eyes. "I wanna know one thing: Why didn't you ever try to have me silenced after that? Were ya hopin' I'd simply blow my own brains out once I got bored with_ 'civilian life'?"

 _Atherton swallowed and this time, he couldn't quite meet Eliot's stare. Eliot let go of him. "Thought so."_

* * *

Shelley stood to the side of the closed garage door as Eliot's team exited their big black van. It might have been hyper vigilance in the wake of the recent events but he felt there was something seriously wrong here.

He didn't mean the security of the rural property they were going to hole up at. He had sent people ahead to clear it and be sure there would be no nasty surprises. Even now there were unseen men in the woods, and they would keep watch for as long as Shelley required it.

No, the _wrongness_ was with Eliot's team.

First through the small garage door into the house were Parker and Eliot. Her with first aid kit in hand, him allowing himself to be herded before her. There was something of defeat in his demeanor. He had fresh injuries, but he was upright and moving on his own so that was good, at least. Shelley wanted to follow but he stopped himself. He had the same field medic training Eliot did, and they had both picked up many additional skills over the years, but Eliot seemed to trust the crazy one, and to follow them now felt like an intrusion into something...deeply personal. Eliot had something here, and it wouldn't be right to interfere.

He caught Ford watching after the two of them with an inscrutable expression on his face. Then, as if sensing Shelley's curiosity, Ford turned and met his gaze briefly, before going into the house himself.

Something was _deeply_ wrong here. Shelley turned back to offer Hardison and Devereaux help with their supplies, half expecting to be ignored or outright shunned, but the hacker didn't bat an eye and merely passed several equipment bags to him. His thoughts seemed miles away, and gone was the humor from his eyes.

* * *

Parker seemed...flustered.

She had directed Eliot into the first bedroom she could find upon entering the house, which happened to be the master bedroom with attached bath. After what happened in the van, he had expected Parker to simply leave him alone there and so he reached for the big first aid kit she was carrying. She snatched it away.

"No. You taught me how to do this, you are going to LET me do this!" Eliot regarded her silently for a moment, then nodded. He sat gratefully on the closed toilet lid and let her cut off his shirt, and start in on the bloodied bandaging on his back. He was so tired. He closed his eyes again.

 _Eliot's behavior could be described as that of a wounded animal: he'd hole up alone when injured. He just wasn't used to having help. It had been so long since he'd had someone he could rely on. And he really didn't like being fussed over: just take care of the problem, and move on. Simple as that. He didn't need fussy Sophie, or nauseous Hardison, or Nate with his alcoholic's trembling hands trying to stitch him up. And Parker? Well, she was damned nuts._

 _He sat on the toilet lid and tried to find a position whereby he could clean out the deep cut on the back of his shoulder. Parker was damned nuts and this time, her off-script actions had gotten him involved in a knife fight. Well, it started as a knife_ ambush, _the fight itself didn't last long after that. But Eliot was left with this reminder to deal with, and a hell of a grumpy worldview right now._

 _There came a tap at the door._

 _He growled. "I don't want any of Hardison's idea of good takeout food. Go away!"_

 _He would have preferred to have cleaned himself up at his own house, in the foothills above Los Angeles, but the Leverage offices had been closer and he'd left his personal vehicle here. He'd hate to get blood on the leather seats._

 _The door opened, and Eliot growled again. He growled a third time when he realized the intruder was none other than Parker._

 _"I'm sorry. I want to help." She stood there in the doorway. He almost growled her away, but the earnestness he saw in her gave him pause. She almost did look contrite, or at least, like she was trying to_ understand _how to be contrite. She wanted to learn. This right here was the Parker everyone had been trying to draw out. So who was he to shove her away?_

Eliot blinked his eyes open, he had almost fallen asleep, there in the bathroom.

Who was he to shove her away?

So he had taught Parker everything he knew about first aid, unofficially, and she soaked it all up. Just like she did when he taught her to fight. And he came to trust her attention to detail, her dexterity, and her judgement.

But tonight, she was flustered.

She managed the cleaning and restitching of the wounds on his back, and the new one on his arm: a simple graze, no bullet left behind. She had probed at his ribs and collarbone, movements still very precise but there was a tenseness, and when she was done with him and it came to cleaning up the supplies, she fumbled and dropped things.

"Hey," he tried to keep his voice gentle, and reached for her hands. She pulled them away. He grabbed them again and held firmly, but gently. This time, she didn't try to pull away. In the early days, Parker would never have trusted _anyone_ to hold her hands like that. They were the most important things to her. The fact she was letting Eliot hold them despite her obvious distress and her reluctance to meet his eyes, spoke volumes. "Hey? Talk to me? What's up, Parker?"

She did pull away then.

"Do you want any hot or cold packs?" Her question was clipped, to the point. Unemotional.

She wasn't ready to talk. "Hot."

Parker left without another word.

* * *

Hardison had taken over the dining room table, and was currently arms deep in the safe house's electronic security. It was pretty impressive, but he still managed to cut through it like a hot knife through butter. And he'd already improved it.

While he worked on that, he downloaded the little cell phone's brains to his computer, and contemplated the state of things.

Parker hadn't disappeared when they arrived here, which was sometimes her M.O. when she became overwhelmed. For that, he was beyond grateful. As soon as they had secreted one very bullet-riddled Lucille into the safe house garage (and Hardison choked down his feelings about _that,_ he couldn't afford to dwell on Lucille's condition right now), Parker had grabbed the first aid kit and swiftly herded Eliot across the garage and into the house. Eliot went without a word. For which Hardison was also grateful. If he had dared open his mouth to Parker again within earshot, Hardison might well have punched him. And he was secretly afraid that had Eliot even wanted to defend himself physically, he was in no condition to do so.

Sophie was keeping him silent company. There was nothing else for her to do right now, and Nate had wandered off...somewhere. She had found some bagged tea in the safe house's pantry: grocery store standard, but better than nothing at all. She sat watching her mug grow cold.

Hardison caught a movement in his peripheral vision, and he glanced up to see Parker over in the open kitchen. She seemed to be fiddling with some microwavable heating packs, but she was fumbling them, and her stance spoke of frustration. But it was the look on her face: the blank, _bleak_ stare, that propelled Hardison from his seat and to her side. Before he could even utter a word, Parker turned toward him and quite literally collapsed against his chest, snaking her arms tightly around his ribs and he was reminded how sure and strong her grip always was. His sweet girl clung as tightly to him as to any building ledge she had ever come across. Startled, Hardison hesitated only a fraction of a second before he returned the hug full-force.

For a moment Parker was still, face pressed hard against his collarbone, then her breath hitched. "We're losing him Hardison. I'm losing my brother all over again and it's worse this time because I _know_ it's happening and I _still_ can't stop it!"

She was quiet then save for the deepest nearly-silent sobs he had ever experienced from her. He'd seen Parker cry before, probably more often than she ever wanted anyone to, and he had even held her through it before. But this wasn't the same as when they were on the mountain, separated by snowsuits and surrounded by strangers. She had wept gently then, and Hardison had been both startled and honored to be her teddy bear.

This was different. This was soul-shattering, intimate, and shared. He could feel her heartbeat, strong yet fluttery, and the tears soaking, _searing_ through his tee shirt, matched now by those trickling down his own cheeks, and he rested his cheek on the top of Parker's head, and squeezed her as tightly as he dared, as if he could mend together the slivers of her breaking heart. And he made her a promise.

"We ain't gonna lose him, mama. We ain't. He's our family. He ain't goin' anywhere. We _won't_ let him."

After a few minutes Parker pulled away, wiping at her eyes. She was done for now, and Hardison let her go. She retrieved the heat packs, and left the kitchen.

Sophie had sat silent through the entire exchange, intently studying her mug, but there was a suspicious dampness and redness to her own eyes that had nothing to do with the lack of sleep they were all experiencing. Hardison didn't comment, but he pulled his chair and computer closer to Sophie before returning to his work.

* * *

Nate entered the master bedroom without knocking. Eliot had been relatively cleaned up, freshly-bandaged, and was sitting still on the edge of his turned-down bed. He looked too exhausted to even finish lying down, though he mustered plenty of ire when he saw Nate.

"You don't wanna be here right now, Nate. In the mornin' we're gonna talk about you listenin' to me and not gettin' the team hurt."

"Funny thing, Eliot. The only member of this team that's been hurt so far is you." _Physically, that is._ But he didn't say it out loud.

Eliot glared. "Don't make a joke of this! You know damn well what I mean! I sent Shelley to you for a reason, you shoulda listened to him and not gotten him or yourselves involved in this!"

"But we are involved, Eliot. Anything to do with Moreau has to do with us now, and you know it. Only that wasn't Moreau was it? And it wasn't the Koreans, either. Who was it?"

Eliot chose not to answer that, and Nate eyed the two small bottles sitting on his nightstand. The seal had been broken on the antibiotics, but not the painkillers.

He picked up the sealed bottle, opened it, and held it out toward Eliot. "Parker left these here for a reason."

Eliot ignored the offering. "Don't want 'em, Nate. Can't be compromised."

"Bullshit, Eliot! You're already 'compromised.' You're about a strong as a kitten right now. Look, we're in the safehouse _you_ wanted us in, we're being watched over by the guy _you_ sent to protect us! Let your damn guard down for one night and _take the damned pills!"_ Eliot made no move to do so.

"You know what Eliot? Getting you to listen, trying to talk sense to you...it's like trying to wrangle a f..." _A four-year-old_. He had been going to say: 'like trying to wrangle a four-year-old' but sudden images of Sam's bedtime capers had him crashing to a halt. He choked on the last word. No, no he was NOT going there tonight.

"Maybe because you haven't talked sense yet, Nate! I still don't know what you're tryin' to accomplish gettin' involved with this! Besides getting yourselves killed! It...my life, _I ain't worth that."_ And there it was. Nate stood in shock, taken aback.

"No pain killers. They slow me down an' make me fuzzy."

Nate stepped closer and slammed the pill bottle down on the table next to the antibiotics. "I don't think you get it, Eliot. You aren't going _anywhere_ right now." He turned to leave without another word. He'd been putting off calling Bonnano again but right now, speaking to a very angry Detective Captain of the Massachusetts State Police was preferable to dealing further with Eliot.

* * *

Parker didn't like crying. Tears were a weakness. Sophie would know how to use tears to her advantage, but tears had never done Parker any good in the past. Crying drew attention and Parker didn't like attention.

Lately when Parker would help Eliot get fixed up, he wouldn't say much. She knew it was because he trusted her. But tonight, the silence hadn't been companionable and she'd felt all twitchy when she worked on him. She dropped things and fumbled a little, but Eliot didn't _say_ anything, he didn't even growl. It had been a long time since Eliot or any of the team had made her feel all...stabby...when they touched her, but it had happened tonight when Eliot held her hands. Like he was a stranger, _masquerading_ as Eliot.

She hadn't meant to cry on Hardison tonight. But she hadn't meant to cry on him on that mountain either, both times it had just happened. But both times had also been...kind of nice. Not the crying part. The Hardison part had been kind of nice.

Parker stood in the bedroom doorway holding an armload of heat packs and listening to Eliot and Nate yell at each other.

Nate turned and saw her in the doorway. As he slipped past her into the hall, he stopped. "He's in pain, but he won't take anything for it. He needs his rest."

"I won't leave him alone."

"That's what I'm counting on. Don't let him out of your sight _this time."_ Nate stalked down the hall, leaving her alone in the doorway.

Parker glared after him. Her fingers itched and she was sorely tempted to taser Nate for that comment. But her hands were currently full and then she remembered that Nate had been just as worried about Eliot as the rest of the team was, and Nate didn't do _worried_ well. At all.

She stepped into the room quietly, and Eliot glanced up at her.

"Hardison kind of wants to kill you, and Nate is _really_ mad, but I'm not." Parker put down her stack of heat packs. "Why won't you just take the pills?"

"Drop it Parker. I haven't slept properly in days. So, just leave me alone and let me sleep."

She stepped back as he gingerly stretched out on the bed trying not to wince or show any other weakness. Idiot. Crying on Hardison must have helped because she didn't feel quite as fluster-y as before and she finally decided to just let Eliot growl at her if he wanted, but she was going to help him. After a little bit of fussing, he finally allowed her to tuck pillows and heat packs where he directed. He ended up mostly on his back because of his ribs, but tilted a bit to keep pressure off the stitched wounds. All in all, Eliot looked quite pitiful, she decided. Parker started piling blankets on him.

"Parker, stop! Leave the quilt off, it's too warm!" So she relented.

"Now, go away and let me sleep."

She regarded him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. "No."

He glared. She stared right back. "You want me to leave? Try throwing me out."

Eliot's jaw clenched but he didn't say a word. Parker toed off her shoes and walked around the end of his bed, gathering up his discarded quilt.

There was plenty of room on the bed and she climbed up behind him, wrapping herself in the quilt like a cocoon. Outside, the wind gusted and the house shook, but stood firm.

Eliot's face was turned away from Parker, but she finally felt him stop glaring. "Fine. Just don't stare at me all night...and don't you _dare_ poke me."

Parker _hmphed,_ and closed her eyes.

* * *

Shelly was staying here. He had made Eliot a promise, and he hadn't fulfilled it yet.

He had been concerned that Ford would try to dismiss him again, or that the team would try to run now that they had Eliot back, but no one had made a move to do so. They seemed much more reasonable now.

He needed to talk one on one with Eliot, he needed _answers,_ but they would have to wait until morning. For now, the storm was too socked in for them all to do anything but rest. Between his shadowy people outside watching the perimeter, and those out still trolling the mountain roads for mercenaries and Koreans, he would have a LOT of explaining to do when he contacted Vance again. Right now, he was banking on a hell of a lot of favors and good will.

And he was about to hand one of those massive favors off to someone else. Hardison was good on a computer. Damn good, but from what Shelley could gather, he was running up against some trouble. Eliot had handed over a phone that had belonged to Atherton, and mentioned something about a kidnapping. The phone had been no issue, and Hardison had back traced all sorts of calls and such, but he needed to see some real-time above-ground imagery, and there were no satellites pointed in the direction he needed that he could hack. Ha, if he only knew!

Shelley entered the dining area. "Hardison."

The hacker looked up, suspicion written clearly on his exhausted face. "Yeah, Shelley?"

Shelley held out a cell phone. "Don't ask any questions and don't try to trace this call."

Hardison took the phone gingerly, putting it to his ear. "Ooooo...k. Yeah, Hardison here?" A moment later, his eyebrows shot up and he tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear and began typing almost to quickly to follow. "Yeah, yeah...gimme jus' a min...got it! Uh, thanks?" He dropped the phone back into his hand and glanced at it, but the connection was now severed.

Shelley took the phone back from him. "Make sure you lose that information when you're done with it." Hardison nodded distractedly, he was deeply immersed in his work now. And Shelley had to admit: he might be young and a little cocky, but he was not nearly as innocent as Shelley had originally thought. This entire team of Eliot's, they were something Shelley hadn't seen in a very long time. He found himself shocked at the depth of their devotion to his friend and to their work, and a little angered that Eliot was the only one who _couldn't_ see it. Or maybe, _refused_ to see it.

A noise behind him drew his attention. Ford had entered the kitchen and was prowling through the cabinets as if looking for a distraction. Shelley glanced again at the table where Hardison was completely caught up in his work. Devereaux though, was watching _him_ closely. He made a decision. The team needed time to rest and reset, but Shelley wasn't just going to let slide what he had witnessed in the garage.

"Ford, Devereaux. Talk to you?"

They glanced at him curiously, but followed him back out into the main room of the house.

Shelley stopped and turned toward them. "Okay, I'm gonna tell it to you straight: Eliot'll kill me if he even suspects I told you any of this but...I really think you should know. You guys are...good for him, I think. You _can't_ let him pull away from you...not like the last time."

Nate's eyes narrowed and he said, "We aren't planning on it..." at the same time Devereaux cut in with, "'Last time'?"

"Eliot gives his all to those he cares about but when he's hurting...he pulls away from them." They nodded. They knew this, and they knew he didn't mean just _physical_ hurt.

"Seriously. Eliot's gonna _kill me."_ Shelley ran a hand over his hair, an unconscious gesture when he was nervous, and he was sure Devereaux marked the movement. "...has he ever talked much about his Army days?"

They shook their heads _no_.

"I thought not, but you need to know the basics. Eliot blames himself for the loss of his entire team. Hell, I blame myself too: I was supposed to be on that mission...but I wasn't, because of an injury. You have to understand Ford, it...shattered his confidence."

Devereaux watched him with a calm understanding, but Ford looked ready to object.

Shelley pressed forward. "He's perfectly confident in his _own_ abilities, in taking care of _himself_. But in allowing himself to form attachments to people any more? Not at all. He came back physically intact but after he was discharged he just...drifted away. I got him to help me with an off-the-books job in Pakistan and he seemed...a little better. That was after he started working with you all, wasn't it? But he's still been distant...When he called me to come watch over _you,_ it was the first I had heard from him in almost a year."

Devereaux spoke quietly, mostly to herself. "Survivor guilt, but more than that, I think..."

Ford nodded. "We don't intend to just _let_ him drift away from us. Eliot's an idiot if he thinks he can just leave this team and we won't fight him every step of the way."

And Shelley thought these four people, for all their quirks and self-destructive behavior, may have been the best thing to ever happen to Eliot Spencer.

* * *

Parker woke with a start. Eliot was twisting under the covers and muttering. Parker inched her way upward until she was leaning against the headboard, still wrapped tight in her quilt cocoon. She briefly wondered if that made her a Parker-pillar, or a cater-Parker? Maybe just a Parker Caterpillar?

She wanted to giggle at the thought, but it might scare Eliot awake, and he'd warned her before not to do so. _Parker_ trusted Eliot's reflexes, but he didn't always trust his own, it seemed.

Eliot's muttering grew louder and Parker caught her own name, then another name she didn't recognize. She tried calling to Eliot softly, then a little louder. That didn't wake him, and it only seemed to distress him further.

Unwrapping one arm from her coccoon, Parker reached toward him, though she kept the rest of herself as far back as possible. She poked Eliot, on his sore shoulder. At the second, much firmer poke, Eliot sat bolt upright with a gasp, and glanced around frantically.

When he caught sight of Parker, doing her best to appear perfectly safe and healthy and not in any sort of danger, he drew his knees up, leaned over them and buried his face in his crossed arms. His breathing seemed too quick and shallow.

Parker wasn't sure if he was entirely awake yet or still caught up in the nightmare, so she didn't dare touch him again yet.

Talking. That might help.

"How long have your nightmares been about us Eliot?" No answer.

"Eliot, who's 'Lizzie'?" Eliot twitched at the question. Okay, so he was at least _hearing_ Parker. She reached a hand out slowly and gently placed it on his shoulder. He seemed a little too warm. Low-grade fever? Eliot tensed, but didn't react otherwise. Okay, so he was not completely stuck in the nightmare.

It was quiet for a little while then, just Eliot's unsteady breathing and the thump of her own heart. And then he whispered: "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

Well. _That_ was a stupid question. And stupid questions did _not_ deserve answers.

Parker leaned closer to more clearly see his face, still tucked against his crossed arms. There was a gimace on his features and Parker knew well enough by now that this was not Eliot's "I'm gonna break Hardison's fingers" grimace. Eliot was actually showing pain, the stubborn jackass. Parker imagined him with a cartoon donkey's tail and ears, like the naughty boys on that old Disney movie, Pinocchio, and she wanted to giggle. But of course that wouldn't be appropriate, so she shoved the silly thoughts aside.

"If you're going to have nightmares anyway, Eliot, you might as well just take the pain killers."

Eliot shook his head, voice gruff. "They don't _give_ me nightmares, Parker. They just...make it harder to wake up from 'em. To wake up an' know where I am. I gotta know where I am when I wake up or..."

Parker stewed on this for a moment. "Just take the damned pills. _I'll_ wake you up. Trust me." He tilted his head and stared sideways at her for a long moment. He almost seemed afraid, but that couldn't be right. But then he reached toward his nightstand and grabbed the pill bottle, glanced at the label. He swallowed two, then an entire bottle of water.

Parker waited while he gingerly settled on his back again. She snuggled down into her coccoon, but left one arm out and placed a hand lightly on Eliot's shoulder. He tensed again, but closed his eyes. Parker waited, until Eliot's breathing evened out and she could feel _all_ the tension leave his body. Until she was _sure_ he was asleep again, she would not close her own eyes. Even then, she did not sleep.

* * *

 _Many foster homes weren't entirely safe. Some were outright dangerous. The girl who would become Parker didn't like the way their current foster 'father' looked at Mattie, who was barely four. Mattie was too young to see it for himself, and Parker barely understood the source of her own unease, but every night she'd hug her brother tightly to herself, all night long, and she wouldn't sleep. She did this so that he couldn't wander off. So that no one could take him away from her without her noticing._

~TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Well, I had all the best intentions to get this chapter out a lot more quickly, especially with this shutdown stuff going on, but I was fortunate to be able to work from home full time although my schedule is all screwy...so writing didn't happen.**

 **And then I found out, quite by accident, that one of my favorite fanfic writers passed away in April. I had no idea until a couple of weeks ago. She was known here as sapienlover, and over on AO3 as TheTetrarch. I won't say I knew her _very_ well, only as a fellow Leverage fan and writer, but we had many wonderful conversations via PM here about our respective writings, and a few other things in life. She was certainly "windswept and interesting" and I will miss her greatly.**

 **I dedicate this chapter to her since she never got to find out if Eliot gets over his stubborn self-destructive streak and accepts help from the team. Hm, maybe I should dedicate the remainder of this story to her since _this_ chapter won't really answer that question at all, though I hope it does answer _some_ questions.**

 **Thanks for sticking with me!**

* * *

Chapter 11

The safehouse was dry, Nate would just have to accept that. He had been sidetracked from his quest for a drink earlier, after leaving a very irate Eliot to Parker's tender care. Maybe she could get something through his thick skull.

How long had it been since he'd had a drink? He must look a mess. But he'd forgotten all of that when Shelley had intercepted him to drop that bombshell about Eliot's past, and Nate had _no_ doubts that Shelley was right to fear for his life for revealing what he did. Well hell. It all made complete sense now. Eliot was always so damn...confident. Self-assured. Steady. But what would Nate have expected? He knew better than to assume that PTSD was simply a fear of loud noises. But to realize the man's lone wolf attitude was rooted in guilt over the loss of an entire team. Hell. That first job they did... _"Eliot. We are not friends."_ It sounded so petty to Nate now, like a playground scuffle.

He _really_ wanted a drink.

Nate envied how Eliot managed to deal with whatever nightmares his past must throw at him. He never knew the man to drink to excess: Eliot was too paranoid to let his guard down like that, and too conscious of his own health and fitness to indulge beyond a beer or two with dinner. Nate didn't think he had it in himself to take up gardening or sparring or whatever else Eliot did to while away the long hours when the rest of the world slept like innocents. Nate knew he was only making excuses for himself, he was a coward and he hated himself for his weakness and sometimes, he hated Eliot for his strength.

Nate wasn't sure if what he and Eliot had now could be called _friendship,_ but he needed Eliot as much as the rest of the team did. Eliot had a more level head than Nate. And he didn't hesitate to call Nate out when he got reckless. Nate needed that. He needed as many people as he could find who wouldn't hesitate to hold him accountable.

Nate leaned against the dining room door frame, silently mulling over his disjointed thoughts, while watching Hardison work. Did the kid never sleep? He was intent on something, and Nate had simply left him to it. He had, of course, overheard the yelling match in the back of Lucille, and caught the bit about the phone and how it could lead them to Atherton's family.

And that made Nate angry. Eliot _must_ have known about this kidnapping at least as long as the team had...and he must know something about the circumstances...but all he gave Hardison was a _phone_. No other explanation. It was like he had already given up on retrieving the family safely. _Maybe give them a proper burial._ Damn it, Eliot. Had he been thinking at all rationally, he should have had the team involved from day one.

 _It shattered his confidence_. Now that he'd had some time to think about Shelley's words, Nate could see that it was happening again: Eliot was giving up, pulling away. Backsliding. The pieces that comprised Eliot began slotting into place in Nate's mind...the puzzle filling in.

* * *

Hardison was exhausted, he assumed everyone else except Nate had gone to bed by now, but he was chasing something very important. His hands had stopped shaking some time ago, but all his energy was just...gone. That thing he'd said to Eliot, in the heat of that unreal moment in the snowstorm...he hadn't meant to reveal it so bluntly. _Brothers_. But he doubted Eliot had even processed what he'd said.

He dropped his head into his hands. He was such a fool.

Nate had been prowling in the kitchen behind him, probably for booze, but now he stepped up behind Hardison's chair. Perfect timing, as he'd just been about to call him over.

"I don't think they're dead, Nate."

"Hm?"

He took a deep breath, pushed back his exhaustion and slid the computer over a bit to where Nate could see it better. "Atherton's family. Eliot thought they'd be dead but I don't think so...see this? I don't know who the kidnappers were, Eliot _neglected_ to mention that, but the calls traced to this area of the docks an' I...Look, even I'm too tired to listen to my own rambling so suffice to say, I was just now able to tie some recent traffic in an' out of the area to... _human_ trafficking. Maybe the kidnappers thought that would be more profitable than just killing them. Anyway, I'm sendin' everything I found about the operation to Bonnano. It's in his geographic jurisdiction. Barely. An' the kidnapping case is his."

Nate pulled out his phone and dialed. "Pat?"

Hardison could hear a very irate voice on the other end, but he couldn't make out words.

"Look Pat...Captain, okay _Detective_ Captain, you're going to have to arrest and hang us later, okay? Yeah, I know. Not exactly in that order. Listen, Captain, Hardison is sending information your way about those missing people you mentioned..."

The voice on the other end picked up speed, became questioning.

"No, I can't tell you how we came about this...just call it an anonymous tip. Happy Birthday. Take lots of backup with you. Let me know how it works out." He hung up at the same time Hardison pressed _SEND_ on his electronic packet of goodies for the Detective Captain.

"He didn't sound too happy."

"Yeah, I think next week's poker game is off." Nate sounded distracted, and Hardison glanced at him again. He was staring off across the kitchen at something only he could see.

"Nate?"

Nate turned back toward him. "You found Eliot's military record."

"Well, the scrubbed one at least. Not the one with the juicy details. They wouldn't keep that anywhere hackable."

"Did it mention any family? Did you ever dig further into Eliot's past?"

"Well, yeah, a little. You know, back when we first got together. I wasn't just gonna take Dubenich at his word. 'Course, after I got to know Eliot better, I decided I preferred to have all ten fingers intact to knowing more about him."

"Did you ever see anything about family? He mentioned once that he had a nephew."

"Damn Nate, how'd you even remember that? I never though about it much, but there was no record of family at all...why you interested?"

"I don't know yet. Look, this..." he indicated the room at large and Hardison took that to mean their current predicament "is your priority, but when you get a chance...I want you to do some digging. Keep it quiet of course."

" _'Of course'?_ Hell bruh, I enjoy having all my bones intact. If I find something, what are you going to do with it?"

"I...uh...don't know yet. Get some sleep." And then Nate was gone.

* * *

Eliot woke. Again hazy, again not entirely sure where he was at first. The fog lifted a bit more quickly this time, which was fortunate because at the same time he registered someone's hand on his shoulder, he also realized the hand belonged to friend and not foe.

 _Damnit,_ Parker. Didn't she understand the danger of touching him while he slept? And now with her hand on him, the moment he so much as twitched she'd be wide awake and hovering again. And he _really_ needed to get up. Get up and get moving. Work his aches out, find Shelley and chew him out for his terrible handling of the situation. And most of all, get _away_ from here before the team could do anything to stop him.

Thompson himself hadn't been among the mercenaries he'd nearly surrendered to yesterday, but Eliot knew he must be close by. He needed to find the little weasel and get some answers from him, find his connection to Moreau, find _Moreau,_ and _end_ this. And despite the fact it hadn't been his first choice, surrendering to Thompson's people would at least have gotten him closer to the man himself.

But instead his team, which had stupidly followed him into a miniature war on top of a mountain in the great and formerly peaceful state of Vermont, had dragged him farther from his goal. And not only that but they, no _Hardison,_ had to go spewing that crap about brothers right there for everyone to hear, after _everything_ Eliot had done to keep them all out of this, to keep the target off _their_ heads and firmly on his own. Word would get to Thompson if he didn't already know, that there were people who were important to Eliot. As if Moreau knowing it wasn't bad enough already. There was a reason he almost never contacted people from his old life. It was for their own safety: he couldn't let them be used against him.

By all appearances, Parker was still sound asleep when Eliot glanced over at her, so he kept his breathing even and didn't move a muscle as he willed the last traces of fog out of his mind. He should not have let Parker convince him to take those damned fuzzy painkillers last night. It had not led to a good night at all. The physical pain may have been numbed, but his mind had remained much too active. Fuzzy half-dreams of the horrors that could be visited upon those people closest to him should they ever fall into Moreau's hands...and now, after Atherton's big revelation of the previous day, Eliot had Thompson to worry about as well.

Damnit.

His gaze drifted to the draped windows. The worst of the wind seemed to have blown itself out overnight, but the muted light through the drapes implied the storm wasn't over yet. What time was it? Early morning? Late afternoon? His internal clock was still screwed up. And he had to face the fact he couldn't do much on his own right now to escape the team if the weather wasn't clearing yet.

He _really_ needed to get up. Nothing for it then. Eliot took a deep breath, bracing himself against the expected aches and began to work the pillows that were tucked around and under his right side out and knocked them off the edge of the bed. As expected, his movements woke Parker and she withdrew her hand from his shoulder, sitting up and just watching him as he slowly worked his legs off the bed, using them as a counter balance to help him sit up. He was glad she kept her distance because he was not sure he could muster enough energy to growl her away.

He sat still for a moment to let his vision and stomach settle, before deliberately pushing off from the bed to stand. Another brief rest to be sure his knees would hold, then he took the first staggering step toward a chair against the wall. He recognized his go bag from Lucille sitting on the chair, and was briefly disturbed that he didn't remember anyone bringing it into the room last night. Had he really been that out of it?

"Where are you going?" Parker finally spoke up and her voice, although quiet and more tempered than usual, came from very close behind him.

Eliot covered his shock with a curt and growled, "Where do ya _think,_ Parker?"

He reached the chair and rummaged in his bag for clothes and shaving kit. He fumbled the kit twice, silently swearing to himself. He _shouldn't_ have taken the painkillers. They had never agreed with him. Pain he'd learned to tolerate. Not so much a fuzzy mind, or impaired reflexes. Add to that, he'd taken them last night on an empty stomach, and he felt nauseous now, his stomach sour. He knew he needed to eat, but the thought of food held no appeal at all.

He finally managed to gather up the clothes and shaving kit and turned toward the master bath, three agonizingly long steps to his right. Parker shadowed him the entire way. At the doorway, he turned abruptly, blocking her from following him in.

"Nate said I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight."

"Then don't tell him you did." And Eliot shut the bathroom door firmly in her face, twisting the lock home with a satisfying _click_. He was under no illusion the flimsy door and lock would have a snowball's chance in hell of holding against Parker, but he hoped she got the message. He figured he had twenty minutes, half an hour tops, before she took it upon herself to conduct a welfare check. He'd have to make the most of the time.

Eliot found the tidied remains of the first aid kit from last night left on the countertop. Good, after his shower he'd redress his wounds on his own. He'd done it enough times prior to this. No need to lean on anyone else for help. The quicker he removed himself from the team and got back to solo work, the better. That was of course, if he even survived whatever Moreau had planned.

Twenty five minutes after locking himself in the bathroom, a showered, shaved, and slightly less irritable Eliot pulled the door open to find Parker standing in the very same spot he had left her, but now Sophie was behind her leaning against the bedroom door frame. Parker stepped aside and Eliot rolled his eyes as he brushed past Sophie on his way down the hall.

 _"Nate's_ making breakfast," Sophie's firm, no-nonsense admonition trailed him down the hallway, "so you have plenty of time for the explanations you owe us."

Like _he_ was in any mood to cook for these freeloaders this morning anyway. Eliot could detect something that smelled like real food from the kitchen. At least Nate was not likely to poison them all inadvertently. He wasn't going to eat anything, but coffee seemed doable. And indeed, there was a full pot on the counter.

He poured himself a mug, black as could be, then turned and surveyed the dining table. When the team had meals together, especially when they were out of town on a case, at a restaurant among unfamiliar company, they would let Eliot choose his seat first. He'd choose the one with the best sight lines, and that gave him the most unfettered room to rise quickly and deal with any potential threat.

Thankfully, it had only ever been a precaution. Today though, he immediately noted the deliberateness with which they left him the absolute worst, most boxed-in seat at the table. Everyone but Nate had seated themselves while he poured coffee, and Nate was leaning over the only other available seat while serving up...omelettes? Of all things.

If he wanted to sit down before he fell down, Eliot would have to take the seat in the corner, leaving his teammates between himself and potential danger. It was backward.

He eyed the doorway into the main part of the house as he sat down, but _Parker_ had the tactical advantage there. He was sure she wouldn't hesitate to use her taser on him if he tried to make a move for the door and freedom.

Then he noticed only the team was gathered in the room, so...

"Where's Shelley?"

Nate scraped an omelette onto the plate in front of him despite Eliot trying to wave him away. "He said he had to go meet a contact. Wouldn't say anything more, other than his men are still watching the perimeter, and we'll be safe. He's...ah...he's very loyal to you."

Nate's comment invited an explanation, but Eliot was not about to spill. He settled for his default neutral-homicidal expression. "He's an idiot and a sellout."

"Now Eliot, don't blame him for _our_ actions." Sophie took a sip of her own coffee, entirely too nonchalant over the entire mess. The smell of Nate's omelette finally reached Eliot's nose and he almost gagged. Nate was a decent enough cook, Eliot was sure the omelette was fine, but he just couldn't stomach the thought of eating it. He sipped his coffee to cover his reaction, but Parker was watching him closely.

He set his coffee cup down and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Your _actions."_

But before he could begin to rail against them, Nate broke in. "No, Eliot. _Your_ actions. You didn't think to share your plan for _our safety_ with _us?_ What exactly did you hope to accomplish?"

The others had mostly finished their breakfasts and Hardison, seated across from Eliot, was eying Eliot's untouched plate. The kid always had been a bottomless pit so Eliot, thoroughly disgusted with the thought of food, shoved his plate across the table and Hardison reached for it. But Eliot's attention was focused entirely on Nate.

"I was _hoping_ to keep you all safe! But _you_ , you smug SOB, dragged them in anyway!"

He rounded on Sophie. "And you...you're supposed to be the level-headed one... _what the hell is wrong with you?!"_

Sophie opened her mouth for a retort, but she never got the chance. Parker reached across the table and yanked Eliot's plate forcefully away from Hardison, sparking a separate argument, and at the same time Nate pounded hard on the table. _"Stop!"_

The room went silent immediately, all eyes on Nate, except for Parker who, glaring, slid the plate back in front of Eliot and hissed, _"Eat!"_

Nate took a deep breath. "Just...stop. Everyone stop for a minute. Okay. We clearly need a reset."

He turned to look directly at Eliot. "We _all_ need a reset. And yes, _you_ need to eat." Eliot stared as his plate. Nate was correct about that at least. He wasn't doing his body any favors by starving it. He picked up his fork, took a small bite. Chewed, swallowed, and it stayed down. He took another bite. Nate's cooking wasn't half bad, but he wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of telling him so.

"We're here together now, Eliot. Caught up in this for better or for worse. How about just filling us in?"

Eliot ate slowly and considered. Fine. If they wouldn't stay _out_ of this, he'd just have to watch over them himself. And if that meant letting them help _for now,_ so be it. He'd give them just enough information that they could help without being a hindrance, and he'd protect them with his life, if necessary. Like always. And he could still count on Shelley. And hadn't Eliot found himself missing Hardison's electronic talents? Now he had that back, and he had Shelley and whoever Shelley had brought with him, along with all the resources they could bring to bear. Of course, that just meant there were _more_ people involved who could get killed because of him. Just lovely.

Maybe...maybe it could help having them around, for now. But whatever Moreau had planned for his end game, they could not be involved. And he'd have to completely sever ties with them soon anyway. Whatever happened, his past was coming too close to his present, and despite what he had said to Parker back there in DC, he did not ever _want_ to tell them what he had done. Back then, he had known they respected him too much to ever ask, but now? Now, all bets were off.

For now, if they wanted to help, so be it. He stared at his empty plate.

"Where do you want me to start?"

* * *

Nate folded his hands on the table and leaned over them. "Let _me_ go over a few things first and you correct me if I'm wrong."

Eliot's expression remained noncommittal, but Nate knew Sophie was also watching him closely.

"You got word before we did that Moreau somehow managed a grand, showy escape from prison. We're guessing your friend the General gave you the head's up. Fair enough. You then determined it would be better for you to suddenly disappear and leave us some cryptic recorded 'goodbye' message delivered by someone we don't know from Adam, as if that could keep us out of your business..."

He waited, but Eliot didn't rise to the bait.

"You are a great tactician, Eliot. Your planning and strategizing when it comes to security on our jobs is usually spot on. But you...you have to admit Eliot, when it comes to our safety you sometimes get a little...well...impulsive."

That got a rise from him. "Impulsive. I sometimes get _impulsive?! You_ were the ones who _tasered_ and _kidnapped_ Shelley!"

"Eliot," Sophie reached over and patted his arm. "You are _loved_ by four highly paranoid and very protective criminals. It's what we _do_." Eliot snatched his arm away.

Nate pressed on. "Obviously, we were going to figure out the situation sooner or later. And we have been monitoring what we can...but it seems Moreau hasn't made any moves against us - Hardison has continued to monitor our building - and I don't think you've managed to move against Moreau. It's as though he's completely dropped off the face of the earth. Am I right so far?"

Eliot didn't deny anything.

"So that brings us to Atherton, and a bunch of North Koreans. Are they connected or is it coincidence?"

"Yeah, and why did the safe house you an' I set Atherton an' his family up in explode? With. You. In. It?" Hardison leaned back with crossed arms.

Eliot sighed and glanced away. Something seemed to be niggling at his conscience. "What about the dogs?"

"Dogs? Yeah...Pat - Captain Bonnano - asked me if you owned any dogs, some little fluffy things..." Nate shaped out their size with hand motions, and Hardison _snerked_ into his mug of coffee.

"...apparently, there were four of them hanging around when the first responders showed up...said the dogs were _guarding_ you, and they ended up having to call in animal control to collect them before they could even get near you."

Hardison sniggered again, then was hit with a coughing fit.

Eliot glared at him. "They were Atherton's dogs. The people who kidnapped his family had locked 'em in the closet. I just let 'em out."

Nate smirked then, ready to drop the bombshell on Eliot. "Yes, Bonnano already asked for them to be released from animal control to the family."

He could see it took a moment for the meaning of this to register with Eliot. And when he saw the news finally sink in, he continued.

"I received a message not long ago from Bonnano. Atherton's wife and daughters were located and rescued early this morning. They're unharmed, relatively."

Eliot opened his mouth, got hung up on the first word, cleared his throat, forced himself to maintain eye contact with Nate.

"How...how'd he know where to look?"

Shelley spoke up then, from the doorway. Eliot didn't seem to have noticed the man's entrance, which Nate found concerning. "Well, there was this crazy-ass colonel who just happened to have an idle spy satellite lying around..." Shelley then gestured at Hardison, "...but it was mainly a very determined hacker. You once told me we should use _every_ asset at our disposal, Eliot."

"Was there a man named Thompson with them?"

"Bonnano didn't say, but he is interrogating the _human traffickers_ who were holding Atherton's family. Bonnano's good. He'll get answers. If he chooses to share them with _us_ is another matter. We're not exactly in his best graces right now, after the stunt you and Parker pulled at the hospital."

Nate noticed Shelley was watching Eliot very closely. It seemed they were not the only people Eliot hadn't been entirely truthful with. Shelley pushed off the door frame he was leaning against and approached the table, stopping next to Nate. _"Thompson,_ Eliot? What's _Thompson_ got to do with this? He's dead. Eliot? it's time to come clean with us. What's going on here?"

* * *

 _Asset_. Eliot hated that word, breaking living breathing people down to little tally marks on a white board. Listed next to counts of bullets and trucks and helicopters. And he hated how Hardison had not looked at all smug about the 'very determined hacker' comment. And he hated how the team seemed to have won over Shelley.

Nate stared hard at Eliot. Most people wouldn't dare try to stare Eliot Spencer down. Nate wasn't most people. And Eliot felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He took a deep breath.

"It all started with this monkey statue...only, I didn't know it back then..."

Eliot proceeded to tell of his Army days, not every detail certainly, but just enough that they could understand the type of work he had done.

"My SO answered to Atherton. Back then, he was a greedy scum-sucking SOB...pretty much the same as when we encountered him last year. He ordered us on a mission, and made us take this other guy along, Thompson, who was unproven. Short of it is: Thompson sold us out, and we were ambushed. I coulda sworn he got himself killed which was fine with me, but I guess I was wrong." He deliberately left out the part about everyone _else_ getting killed as well. No way they needed to know that.

He risked a glance around the table. Shelley had pulled up a chair next to Nate, and he seemed to be sharing surreptitious glances with him and Sophie. Hardison and Parker were hanging on his every word.

"I didn't know 'til later that he was after this monkey statue. It's, um, Incan...maybe earlier, carved outta some ultra rare jade...anyway, it's considered almost priceless an'..."

"Cursed?" Nate broke in. "I recall reading about this monkey statue years ago. It supposedly carries a curse worse than the curse of the pharaohs?"

"Yeah, somethin' like that. The 'curse' is part of what makes it so valuable and desired. Some people believe in the curse, which is supposed to be more like a curse upon the _enemies of the bearer_ of the monkey, not against the owner of it. So, the people who actually believe that...that's why they want it, for the power they think it could bring 'em. But most people simply want it so they can sell it. That was Atherton's deal, greed for money, not power. That was the whole point of the mission he sent us on...so Thompson would have a shot at gettin' hold of it. He never did, 'cause it wasn't where it was supposed to be, and he barely escaped with his sorry hide." By the time Eliot realized their entire mission was nothing but smoke and mirrors, they had already been surrounded. Images of that day came unbidden to mind, and his hand shook a little as he raised his coffee cup again to his lips. The coffee was stone cold.

"That monkey, if it's the same one, turned up some years ago at the British museum...I remember considering making a move for it, purely for the money of course, but every time I started planning the job I just...well, it felt... _wrong."_ Sophie shuddered a little "And anyway, the monkey wasn't very attractive, for all that it was valuable. I like _pretty_ things. Parker, did you ever try for it?"

"No. I don't like monkeys." She glanced around. "They're always hanging around and climbing on things, dropping down on people from above...what? They're creepy!" Hardison blinked at her, but refrained from saying anything.

"So back on topic..." Nate signaled for attention. "Back on topic. The monkey DID disappear from the museum a while back. Did Atherton finally get a hold of it?"

"No, I...retrieved it for...when I was working for Moreau. I don't think he ever believed it had a real curse, but he was definitely willing to use the belief in the curse to his advantage if the opportunity ever arose. He kept it stashed away with his other antiquities, kind of like a massive rainy day fund."

"And somebody's been raiding those stashes." Nate looked at Eliot expectantly. "I keep up to date on international news, and not just mainstream media, the smaller outlets. There's a pattern developing. Antiquities being 'found' and returned to their countries of origin...the stories are seemingly unconnected but there have been a lot of them recently."

"Yeah...Flores an' I have been keepin' our Italian friend busy...keeps her outta trouble if she has a job to do." Eliot stopped to gather his thoughts. Hardison placed a fresh cup of black coffee in front of him. He hadn't even noticed the kid getting up. God, he was worn out.

"That explosion? That was Atherton tryin' to get our attention, since we didn't leave him a calling card. He got himself in some trouble thinkin' Moreau was gone for good. He musta known the location of a few of Moreau's antiquities stashes an' he tried getting the North Koreans interested. Shelley, that old man you ran up against...he's the representative of an old crime family in North Korea. He an' Atherton have been close for a long time, but Atherton never had the shrewdness to know when _he_ was being used.

"From what I gathered, the old man blew him off when he inquired. But he's definitely interested in the monkey because the family believes Moreau owes them for the destruction of the Ram's Horn last year. They were the high bidder and Moreau took their money and ran to San Lorenzo."

Nate was nodding. The team had figured that much out on their own. "Now Moreau's out, the Koreans are looking for _him,_ cut out Atherton as middle man. So then Atherton..."

"Hired Thompson and his little private army to fetch the monkey for him. Just like old times." Eliot paused again. Here was the key, the little spark that had set off so much.

"The place where he sent Thompson...The Italian's people were setting up a raid at the same time. There was a firefight, and they both lost people. I found out from Atherton before he was killed that that was when Thompson turned against him, and took his family to force the location of the monkey from him. Atherton had nothin' left. He hired some people to do the only thing he could think of to get _our_ attention."

Nate had leaned back in his seat, absorbing everything Eliot told them. He was sure the mastermind was rolling all those details over and over in his mind, polishing and slotting them together, just like he did for a regular con. His expression however, indicated one or more of those pieces still had jagged edges.

Anticipating Nate's next question, Eliot asked it for him. "Why would Moreau, after escaping the way he did, just sit back and let his stashes be raided?"

Nate nodded. "We need to solidify the timeline, figure out how Moreau's escape is related, because the timing can not be coincidental. And talk to General Flores. See if he has any updates besides what little has been released to the local media. Did you tell us everything, Eliot?"

There was that stare again. Eliot tried hard not to blink. "Atherton didn't just want our help...he...traded _me_ to Thompson as his last ditch effort to get his family back. But I figured...once Thompson had me, he'd have no use for Atherton at all and a guy like that, even if Atherton had known where the monkey was and given it to him right away, Thompson woulda just killed him anyway. Either way, no reason to keep the family alive at all." Eliot realized he was rambling.

"Except to sell them, apparently. The information I dug up last night, that we gave to Bonnano, says this Thompson guy had ties to human trafficking. He had a _use_ for Atherton's family, alright."

"Bonnano gets credit for the huge bust, but Eliot," Sophie placed a hand on his arm again. "You were ready to simply write them off. You're not like that. You fight until there is no fight left in you. How did you miss this?"

There was no accusation on the faces of his teammates, but Eliot's heart sank. What Sophie had said was true. Any other time, any other case, he would have pursued the matter to the ends of the earth. Not matter these people were the family of his enemy. They were innocent of Atherton's wrongdoings and he had given up all hope for them. He was too focused on his rage over Thompson, his fear over Moreau...what else might he miss now that he'd resigned himself to letting the team in on this? How could he protect them when he didn't quite trust his own judgment any more?

"And what we came across yesterday, Eliot? You tryin' to surrender? What's that about?" Hardison was leaning as far forward over the table as he could, and Eliot was reminded of his yelling about brothers and how that had suddenly put a huge red target on Hardison's back.

"I...couldn't run any more. An' I thought, maybe he might know something about Moreau. There has to be a connection. Maybe I could turn the tables, escape later..." That explanation felt hollow to his own ears and he let himself trail off. No one else filled the silence.

After a few moments, Hardison slid a phone across the table toward him. "Here. Figured you'd need a new one to call the General."

* * *

The others had drifted away from the table after that, guessing correctly that Eliot wouldn't want an audience for his check-in call with Flores. He finally had some blessed peace, but he couldn't let himself forget that he was still in a room of the safehouse with no doors to the outside, and no windows that were able to open. The team was still between him and any exits. He was still stuck with them.

For a short while Eliot just sat still, trying to wrap his mind around the events of the last few days, and how everything had ended up here. He tried to find bits and pieces, any clues he might have missed that could finally link the chain of events that Atherton had set off to Moreau's escape. Had Moreau had contact with the outside world, despite Flores' assurances it could not be so? Had he heard of the raids on his stashes and that became the final straw? But again, why escape only to lie low?

His mind refused to still, and Eliot gave up trying to force the puzzle pieces together. He dialed Flores' number.

"Commander! I've been concerned that I could not reach you. How is your progress?"

"Not that good. Somethin' else has come up here that may or may not be connected. Do you have any updates?" Flores would know not to press for details on his end. Eliot would share them if he deemed them relevant.

"We know now how Moreau survived the explosion, and likely how he has eluded us, but we still do not know where he is now."

Eliot waited while Flores gathered his thoughts.

"I apologize, my friend. This was a major oversight, but Vittori's new government has been working very hard not only to rebuild San Lorenzo's democracy and to regain the trust of its citizens, but also on such seemingly insignificant tasks as sorting out official documents. That was a mess, under Ribera's...er... _administration."_

If Eliot didn't know any better, he'd have thought Flores was...flustered and therefore, rambling. Or stalling.

"What're you gettin' at, General?"

"The Tombs were originally part of a series of tunnels and catacombs under our city, much like those in Rome and Paris. We knew that, and we knew access to the deeper reaches had been sealed off long ago...what we didn't know was the _extent_ of the original catacombs, and even tunnels that criss cross our capitol city. The 'official' maps were terribly incorrect and misleading."

"No doubt deliberate on Ribera's part, so Moreau could use the tunnel systems for his own purposes, should he ever want to. 'Course, with Ribera in charge, he really had no need to _circumvent_ the law...they were just another backup plan."

"Indeed, Commander. Once the rubble of our Parliament building had been sufficiently cleared, which took time, we found evidence those old sealed tunnels had been opened prior to the explosions. The attack came from underneath. They opened the tunnel, freed Moreau, returned to the tunnels, and detonated the bombs they left behind."

"Efficient, and almost certain to cover their tracks since the charges should have collapsed and sealed the tunnels behind them." Eliot found himself clenching the fist not holding his phone. How had they missed this in their planning? Ribera might have hidden or destroyed the original maps, but Eliot should have known such catacomb and tunnel systems were common as mud in that region of the world! Damnit all.

"Yes, but it does explain how he made it to Ribera's estate for his little visit without being caught. I have people searching now underground, but it is a slow and dangerous project. Some of the tunnels are unstable, and we have found very few of the original maps. We are going about this nearly blind."

"I understand General...be careful." He gave Flores the number for his new phone.

"You as well, my friend."

* * *

Eliot was restless. He wandered the house from room to room, working the stiffness out of his muscles, getting the blood flowing again. He wasn't exactly being shadowed but one member of his team or another would invariably show up wherever he happened to be. It was annoying to say the least, and he finally stepped out onto the back patio heedless of the chill, simply needing fresh air and space. The storm had all but passed by now, but he'd given up the idea of simply running away again. At least for now.

"Is it really cursed?" Parker spoke from behind him.

"Does it matter, Parker? It's enough that there're people who believe it. Remember that fake psychic? That belief can drive up the value of something to where people are willin' to kill for it.

"Yeah." Parker leaned on the patio railing next to him, looking out over the empty snow-covered field to the tree line beyond. Eliot knew Shelley was true to his word. Some of the finest soldiers to be found anywhere in the world were out there right now freezing their asses off to protect him and the team, no questions asked and no money exchanged. For these people, unlike those following Thompson, loyalty wasn't bought. It was earned.

Parker seemed to want to say more but she didn't, and the silence stretched between them, until the patio door slid open again.

"It seems to me maybe we could draw Thompson in...if all he wants is the statue, why not give it to him?"

"Ain't happenin', Nate. It's off the table because it's too damn dangerous! 'Sides, it's not accessible."

"Ah, so you _do_ know where it is." Nate leaned over the railing as well, on Parker's other side.

"Never said I didn't." He turned and leaned backward against the railing instead, to include Sophie and Hardison, lingering in the warmth from the open door. "I said it's _inaccessible_. I didn't want it to fall into anyone's hands, 'specially not our Italian friend, so I...took care of it...after we put Moreau away."

"Wait, you don't mean...you didn't like, drop it down a volcano or somethin' did ya?! All by yoreself? Man, I coulda been your Sam! Your _SAM,_ Eliot!"

"What the hell are you talkin' about, Hardison? The hell's wrong with you now?" The hacker's inane ramblings were giving Eliot a headache worse than usual.

"You know what? Jus', no. There's no reasonin' with you at all man. At _all,_ you don't know _that_ reference!" Hardison crossed his arms and glared in a fair attempt at disappointment.

"Wait, you're saying you essentially destroyed a priceless artifact? _Destroyed?!"_

"Um, Sophie, 'cursed,' remember? A _cursed_ artifact! I'm good with destroyin' that! But, why did you never mention it before?" Hardison glared at Eliot again.

"Seriously? I wasn't about to tell four thieves, especially _Parker,_ about a priceless, possibly-cursed monkey statue!"

"Hey! I already said I don't like monkeys!" Their discussion devolved into yelling again, the essence of which included Hardison explaining to Parker that Eliot had not known at the time that she didn't like monkeys, and Sophie again railing against the destruction of _A. Priceless. Artifact_. And Nate once again motioning for quiet.

"The problem here Eliot, is that your instinct any time Moreau is in the picture, is to rush headlong in without letting us help until we press you into it..."

"You were just fine with leavin' the warehouse in DC with the Italian when I told ya to!"

The smug bastard remained calm, damn him. "That's different Eliot, and you know it. Here, there's time to plan, and we're giving Thompson that monkey. Parker, do you still have whatever it is you stole in San Lorenzo?" Parker smiled that smile which was known to strike fear into the hearts of sane people everywhere.

* * *

"I'm not your damned gofer, Ford!" Shelley looked askance at the paper Nate had just unceremoniously tried to shove into his hands. "The hell is that stuff for, anyway?"

"Well, if you're not willing to go, could we possibly borrow your Jeep? Or, you know, better idea..." Ford turned toward the hacker. "Why don't you and I just take Lucille into town, drop her at a body shop for repairs while we run our errands? It's just some minor cosmetic work, shouldn't take too long." Hardison nodded agreeably.

Shelley snatched the paper from Ford's hands with a glare. "I hate you all. I have no idea why Eliot puts up with you."

Ford smiled and ducked in front of him as he turned toward the door to the garage. "Oh, you'll have to take Parker with you...there are some things you might not be able to...acquire...on your own."

"No. Absolutely not. _Hell_ no!" He opened the door and flicked on the light in the garage. The little psycho thief was already seated in his Jeep. In the driver's side. "Hey! Get outta there!"

"It's okay, Shelley." He turned to see Eliot, leaning heavy in the door way. "She'll behave. Right, Parker?" Eliot seemed satisfied by her grin and nod. Shelley's heart plummeted into his stomach.

"Fine. But you're NOT driving!" The girl pouted as she slid across to the passenger side. Shelley got in behind the wheel.

"Oh, Shelley?" Eliot stepped further into the garage. "On the back of Nate's list are some groceries we need...don't forget them."

"There is plenty of food here already!" He glanced down at the list. "How much food do you think you _need?!_ You are NOT cooking dinner for an army, here!"

"Like hell I ain't. I know these guys haven't been eatin' properly, and the pre-packaged stuff here in the safehouse can't really be considered food. Also, MREs might serve in a pinch, but they ain't very appetizing, so you'll be taking some of what I cook out to your men in the woods. Hear me?"

Shelley shook his head in surrender, and started the Jeep.

~ TBC


End file.
